


The Hunters, the Doctor, and the Detective

by orphan_account



Series: The Hunters, the Doctor, and the Detective [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Merlin (TV), Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: (If you want), (Tell me if you think it is graphic), Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Crossover, Epic Friendship, Friendship, Gen, Humor, I try humor, Merlin only there for a little while, Mostly Superwholock, Murder Mystery, Non-Graphic Violence, Shippy Gen, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 23:36:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3506825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Plus a Fallen Angel, an Impossible Girl and an Army Doctor.</p>
<p>A mysterious and seemingly impossible case draws seemingly unrelated people together to London, leading them into a greater quest to solve the mystery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Case

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So I have migrated this "superwholock" story from fanfiction.net over to here. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Apologies if any character gets out of character, or if any plot becomes unrealistic, because I have a lot of ideas I want to put in here at once, and there are a lot of characters to keep track of.
> 
> As for timelines in the various shows, I shall attempt to tell them to you, but there shouldn't be any major spoilers for anything:  
> -Doctor Who Series 7 Part 2 with 11 and Clara  
> -Supernatural season 8 episode 8- After this, but a little AU, Cas is not mind controlled by Naomi  
> -Sherlock after Reichenbach- and this was written before I knew about Mary, so she is not here  
> -Merlin- Before the Morgana evil thing
> 
> I have no beta, so I am sorry about any spelling or weird errors.
> 
> Also, there are many villian tags that I should have in there, but that would be a spoiler!

In an indeterminate location above the Pacific Ocean, Dean Winchester clutched the sides of the plane's passenger chair tightly, trying to steady his breathing as the plane rocked slightly. _Just turbulence_ , he tried to reassure himself. But his past experiences on planes led him to believe it might be a demon possessing the pilot, or perhaps the apocalypse decided to start again. That would be just his luck. Besides, he just _really_ disliked flying.

He sighed deeply, glaring it his brother as his knuckles were turning white over the armrests on the seat. It was all Sam's fault; he was the one who noticed the case in Britain and decided that they just had to _fly_ over there and check it out. If this turned out to be noting he was so going to punch his brother.

"Why'd it have to be flying, Sam?" he complained.

His brother turned to glare at him, with his usual 'really, Dean?' face. "How else are we going to get there?" His face changed the classic 'I'm concerned about you' Sammy face. "The plane's not going to crash, Dean."

"You don't know that. It could crash at any time! And we could have… taken a boat or something!" Dean thought for a moment. "Or, we could have just asked Cas to mojo us there!"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean, it would take way too long to get there on a ship, and I'm sure Cas has better things to do. He's not your personal puppet, you can't just tell him to poof you somewhere just because you're afraid of flying there!"

"I am not afraid of flying, Sam! I just… don't like it…" Dean frowned.

"Yeah, whatever you say, Dean." Sam returned to looking at his laptop.

The plane lurched forward suddenly, causing Dean's stomach to churn. He got up out of his seat, without a word to his brother, heading in the direction of the bathroom.

"Dean!" he heard Sam call from behind him.

"Gotta go, Sammy!" he called back, gripping the backs of the seats as he walked along the plane's aisle. It seemed like an eternity until he reached the bathroom.

After washing himself up, Dean turned to leave the small bathroom, when he collided with someone. _In_ the tiny bathroom. _With_ him. He instantly freaked out, reaching for the weapon he didn't have, because of course, he was on a plane. He would just have to do with punching, or running, or maybe salt, but he just stood there startled, staring at the familiar trench-coated figure, as recognition set in.

Innocent and piercing blue eyes stared back at him. "Dean," the angel greeted, in a familiarly gruff voice.

"Cas…" Dean sighed, "How many times have I told you not to just pop in like that? You startled me, man."

Castiel frowned. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"It's okay." Dean sighed, heart still racing from his fright. Plus, they were on an _airplane_.

The angel's deeply blue eyes seemed to stare into his soul. Dean wondered briefly if they really could. "Like I told you before, Dean, I want to be a Hunter. I want to help you and Sam; help other people."

He seemed determined and Dean wasn't going to turn him down. He was his friend, and it was of course a huge advantage to have an angel around. "Of course, Sam can tell you all about the crazy case we've found."

"Thank you, Dean."

Dean was about to leave the small room, when he wondered something. "Cas?" he started.

"Yes, Dean."

"Was it hard to land on a moving airplane?"

The angel frowned again. "It was…" he searched for words, "challenging, yes, but I managed without much difficulty—"

"Excuse me!" Dean heard a woman's voice, from outside the door. "Are you alright in there?"

"Fine!" Dean called.

"Dean, I believe we should leave this bathroom now."

Before the angel had a chance, the door was opened for him, and an attendant stood outside, glaring at the two men suspiciously.

Dean was suddenly awkwardly aware of how close he was standing to his angelic friend in the small, cramped space. "I…we were…just…" he began awkwardly.

"I think the woman wants us to leave now, Dean. Come on." Castiel grabbed Deans arm, unknowingly saving him from an awkward explanation ( _Oh yeah, my angel friend here just teleported into the bathroom here. Sorry, he's not so good with personal space issues_ ), by leading them away from the woman, to Sam.

"Hello, Sam." Cas greeted the younger Winchester, as they arrived at his seat.

Sam looked up from his laptop, as the two sat down. "Hey, Cas." Sam looked confused, "Why are you here?"

"He wants to help with the case," Dean supplied, "I told him you'd fill him in on the details."

"Oh, yeah, of course." Sam looked back at his computer screen. "In London this morning, twenty people just dropped dead at a park. All of them had a heart attack at _the same time_."

Okay, Dean had to admit that it was defiantly a very weird case that deserved their attention, which is why he agreed to the plane thing anyway, but he still didn't like it.

Cas was staring at Sam. "I don't know of any creature that can do that."

"That's what I said," Dean commented, breathing in hard as the plane lurched slightly again. He gripped the armrests so tightly he thought they might crumble in his hands.

Castiel looked at Dean, noticing his obvious discomfort. "Dean, are you okay?"

"Fine, Cas." Dean managed.

"He's afraid of flying in airplanes," Sam told the angel.

Dean would have defiantly punched his brother if he wasn't concerned with the current jerky tilts the plane was having. _Not crashing, not crashing, not crashing…_

Cas tilted his head at Dean. "I don't understand, Dean, you've been in more dangerous places than an airplane."

A voice on the loudspeaker announced that they were going through some turbulence, and everything would be fine, and they would be landing in a couple hours.

Dean let out a deep sigh at this statement. _Two whole hours_. He gripped the chair as if his life depended on it. "I just _really_ hate planes."

* * *

 

Elsewhere in London, specifically in the flat at 221B Baker Street, John Hamish Watson was awoken from a rather pleasant sleep with the loud screeching of an out of tune and rather high pitched violin note. He groaned, staring at the clock; it was 4 A.M. _Who plays violin at 4 A.M.?_

"Sherlock!" he grumbled, "We've talked about this!" He looked up to see his flatmate towering over his bed, bow and violin in hand. "You can't practice the violin at four in the morning! I need _sleep_!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Sleeping, John? _Dull_!" He screeched another note on his violin as if to prove a point. John would swear that he was playing these screeching noises just to annoy him. "Get _up_ , John!" Sherlock pulled the covers off of his bed, much to John's annoyance. "We have a _case_!" He ran out of the room like an excited two year old.

Unfortunately, and since it was a case after all, John Watson reluctantly pulled himself out of bed and got dressed. Okay, maybe not reluctantly, since he was awake now after all the yelling and screeching and no one could blame him if he was at least a little bit excited about having another case…

When he got out, Sherlock Holmes was looking intently at the screen of John's laptop. "Twenty people just dropped dead of heart attacks at a park all at once, John! I think it's my birthday!"

John sighed again, picking up a tea pot, careful to avoid another cup filled with an unidentified liquid. "Sherlock, it's not your birthday. At least try to act like people's deaths don't make you happy."

Sherlock waved that notion off. "Why, John? I don't care what they think. They're wrong."

John sighed, focusing on making some tea, while he silently wondered something. "Sherlock, do you even know when your birthday is?"

"No, deleted that information a long time ago."

"You don't even know your own birthday?!"

"Yes, John, that is what I just said." Sherlock jumped up from the chair, grabbing a scarf along the way. "Mycroft might know," he added, as if that made it alright.

John sighed in defeat, sipping his tea.

"No time, John! I've called a cab!" Sherlock was out the door before John could react.

"Wait, Sherlock!" John called, dropping his tea, and instantly running after his friend, grabbing his coat on the way out.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he called, though he didn't know if she was awake yet, "We're going out!"

He ran down the stairs and out of the flat, catching up to Sherlock. They hurriedly climbed into the cab.

"Has Lestrade called you in?" John asked.

"No. But, he will."

John sighed again. "Sherlock, you know he doesn't like it when you just show up at crime scenes without asking."

"He needs my help anyways, and he knows it."

They sat in silence for a while, until Sherlock's phone began to ring. He picked it up, looking dramatically at John.

"Oh yeah, Lestrade? You need us on the case at the park?" he said sarcastically, "Yes, we'll be there in two minutes."

He hung up the phone and looked triumphantly at John. "See, told you."

* * *

 

"I am defiantly, absolutely _sure_ that I landed her here! Right in your backyard!"

Sometime near after the Winchesters landed, Clara Oswin Oswald watched as the Doctor scanned her backyard for his beloved time traveling blue police box. He was clearly displeased about this.

"Are you sure, Doctor? You know, sometimes you don't always land in the right place…"

"Of course I'm sure!" he exclaimed looking behind the bushes for about the sixth time, "And of course I always land in the right place! It just…sometimes it takes a few tries is all…"

Clara glared at the Doctor. "Well, clearly it's not here."

The Doctor jumped up, staring at her. "Of course! Someone must have taken her!"

"The Tardis? In my backyard?" Clara questioned, wondering who she knew that would possibly want to steal an old police telephone box randomly sitting in her back yard. Nope, it was defiantly not anyone she knew.

The Doctor was pouting. "It's okay, Doctor, I'm sure we'll get her back eventually, we always do."

The Doctor sighed. "Yes of course." He sat down at a chair in front of the backyard. "Well, what am I going to do now?"

"You could—"

"I'm going to go find her!" The Doctor jumped up excitedly, beginning to run out of the yard. Clara ran blindly after her mad man with a box—without a box.

A short while later, she was following the Doctor into a grocery store. Apparently he _needed_ a snack. Clara knew that what he really needed was not a snack, but indeed his time traveling bigger-on-the-inside box, but she went with him anyways.

He was standing at the corner of an aisle, murmuring something about fish fingers to go with the custard he was holding, when a man in a trench coat walked backwards into him, not paying attention to where he was going. The man turned around quickly as the Doctor tumbled backwards into a large pyramid-shaped stack of canned beans.

"Doctor!" Clara called, helping him up. The cans were rolling all over the place.

"Umm….sorry…" the man said in a deep, gravelly voice with a sort of confused look.

"It's quite alright." The Doctor smiled at the man. "That would probably have happened even if you weren't there." Clara silently agreed.

She thought that it was quite odd how the man's piercing blue gaze seemed to stare right through the Doctor. He tiled his head to the right. "Umm…Do you know where I can find…pie?"

Clara, who knew the store since she lived in the area, spoke up, pointing to a place on the left. "Pie is over there."

"Thank you, very much. It is very important that I have pie." _Okay_ , Clara thought, _he's a little weird._ Then again, she was used to weird; she traveled with the Doctor, who was currently staring intently at the strange man, who began to walk towards the pie.

The Doctor dropped his custard, walking quickly behind the man. _This must be serious, he dropped the custard_ , Clara thought.

She quickened her pace to keep up. "What?" she whispered to the Doctor, knowing something wasn't right.

"It's that man…there's just something…off about him—almost inhuman…"

This didn't surprise Clara anymore. "You sure?"

"Define sure."

Clara glared at him, not responding.

"It's just a feeling," the Doctor commented, watching as the trench-coated man walked over to two others, a pie now in his possession. "My feeling are always correct...most of the time."

The two other men both wore suits— _cheap suits_ , Clara noted. One was exceedingly tall with very long brown hair that touched his shoulders, while the other had shorter brown hair and more average height. Trench coat man handed the shorter one the pie, who promptly slapped him on the back in thanks, taking the pastry.

The Doctor walked up to the men with authority, Clara following close behind. He held out his psychic paper. "Hello there, I'm D.I. John Smith, codename, the Doctor and this is my assistant, Clara. I'd like to ask you a few questions."

They looked slightly confused, but the taller man said, "Of course. Ask anything you like." Clara noticed he stamped on the shorter man's foot as he opened his mouth to speak, silencing him.

"Thank you," the Doctor smiled at them "Have any of you gentlemen seen a blue police telephone box?"

Clara mentally slapped him.

"Have we seen…what?" the shorter asked, raising his eyebrows at the question.

"A blue police box. I've… lost it."

"You've lost your blue police box?" the same man questioned.

"Yes."

"We have not seen any blue police boxes." Trench coat said seriously.

"We have, um, seen many pay phones around, though. I don't know if that helps?" Giant added.

"No…" the Doctor replied, sadly, "I'm just looking for a specific one."

Short spoke up in the awkward silence. "Well, now that we've established this, maybe we should—"

Giant whispered something to short, then turned to us. "We're actually from the FBI." He flashed a badge, "I'm Sam Goldenburg and this is my partner Dean Pascow…"

"I'm Castiel," Trench coat added.

"We were hoping you could give us a directions to the park," Sam continued, "I don't know if you've heard about the…suspicious deaths there, but we've been called in to help."

"Suspicious deaths…" Clara could hear the curiosity in the Doctor's voice. "Yes of course…" The Doctor looked at Clara for assistance.

"I can take you boys to the park," she supplied, grinning at the awkward Americans.

"That's great," Dean said dramatically, "Now, let me just buy my pie first…" He clutched the pie tightly.

Castiel was staring intently at the Doctor. "I'm sorry about your telephone box," he told him.

"Thank you," the Doctor replied, following the Americans into the check-out area and the mystery that was sure to come.


	2. The Scene of the Crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crime scene is investigated.

John Watson picked up his pace as he followed his best friend to the park, ducking under the yellow crime scene tape covering the entrance.

"Freak. John. Lestrade is waiting for you," Sally Donovan greeted them.

"Yes," he heard Sherlock state, clearing wanting to avoid conversation and get on to the crime scene. John silently agreed with him.

"You won't figure this one out," Anderson added, "It's impossible."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. "Please, Anderson, the simple act of something existing clearly means that it's not impossible. Are you really that stupid?" He gestured to Donovan "Just get her some flowers. That's what John does when he gets into a fight with his girlfriend."

John stood there awkwardly staring at the two as Sherlock ran on ahead. "Uhh, yeah, roses work really well…"

They just stared at a confused John in awkward silence.

"I think I'll go with Sherlock now!" John quickly ran after Sherlock, not giving them a chance to reply.

John spotted Lestrade staring intently at a path in front of him. As John walked over a hill, he could see twenty bodies just lying on the path. Sherlock bolted past the Detective Inspector, ignoring him completely, and crouching to stare at the nearest body, a woman in about her late twenties, John guessed.

Lestrade looked down at Sherlock, "You got here quick."

The consulting detective murmured a small noise something along the lines of 'mhmm,' staring intently at the body, then quickly jumping over to the next. "John! Are you seeing this! This is amazing!" He leaped to the next with way to much joy.

"Yes, I'm coming, Sherlock!" John called to him, then turned to a confused looking Lestrade. "Hey, Greg. Sorry, he's a bit hyper today."

"Today?" Lestrade questioned.

John shrugged. "He thinks it's his birthday."

"Oh God no."

"I know."

The Detective Inspector sighed deeply, and John easily recognized it as the sigh of defeat many uttered while in the presence of Sherlock. John was sure that this sigh had a special extra annoyed and defeated quality that could on be brought on by Sherlock. "Well, I'm glad you two could make it because for once we actually have no idea what's going on here."

Sherlock huffed from where he was staring at a faraway body. "For once? Good joke, Lestrade. You _never_ know what is going on anywhere." He made eye-contact with John. "I think I'm beginning to understand humor, John! I'm improving!"

Lestrade uttered the special-Sherlock-sigh again.

"I better go help him." John walked over to where Sherlock was inspecting a young man.

"What do you think, John?" Sherlock stared intently at John, expecting him to give his opinion.

John crouched over the man, noticing no physical marks or anything at all suggesting someone had attacked him. He glanced around at all the other bodies. "I don't know, Sherlock. It's like they all just dropped dead. Their hearts all just stopped working suddenly. I would say they died of heart attacks…"

"But?" Sherlock prompted, all his attention focused on John.

"Well…they're all in good physical condition…none of them look like typical heart attack victims…and, they couldn't have all just dropped dead at once… If only one or maybe two had died, I would say natural causes, but it's too many to be a coincidence." John shook his head. What he was looking at made no sense to his medical brain. _Twenty_ people couldn't have all just dropped dead all at once in the same area.

"Exactly!" Sherlock exclaimed, jumping up with a huge grin on his face. "It makes no sense at all! It just couldn't have happened! But it _did_!"

Lestrade walked over to the two, while Sherlock inspected a young woman's handbag. "Have you got anything, Sherlock?"

Sherlock just stared intently at the bag and said nothing, his expression as unreadable as ever.

John tapped Sherlock on the shoulder. "Sherlock," he began.

"What!?" He snapped turning quickly to John. "Oh, sorry, John."

 _Did he just apologize to me?_ John thought, incredulously. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Fine." The detective quickly stood up. " _Someone_ must have done this. It just _cannot_ have been a coincidence." He shook his head. "It doesn't make any sense. It _can't_ have happened." He started to walk away from the crime scene without another word.

John looked at Lestrade. "Err…I think he has nothing, sorry," John said awkwardly, looking after a retreating Sherlock.

Lestrade breathed in deeply. "Well, bringing him in was a long shot. I don't think anyone has an explanation for this." He looked at John. "Just make sure he's alright."

"Of course." John watched Sherlock walk past Anderson and Donovan without making a clever remark. _I'll try_ , John thought, running after Sherlock. Everyone who knew Sherlock knew it was _impossible_ to understand what he was feeling.

He ran up to find the detective hailing a cab and John quickly hopped into the cab after him.

"221B Baker Street." Sherlock murmured to the cabbie. Then he began to stare into space in silence. John really wished he would make his face more readable, but he could tell there was something wrong with his friend.

After a long silence, John spoke up. "You alright?"

"I told you, I'm fine."

"No one else knows what happened there either, Sherlock. You're not the only one."

Sherlock said nothing, and stared resolutely at the back of the front passenger chair.

"Sherlock, I can't help you if you don't talk to me."

"I said, I'm _fine_ , John."

John sighed deeply, and wondered if he should phone Mycroft. He quickly decided against that; he couldn't deal with two troubled geniuses at the moment. He just hoped his best friend would be alright.

* * *

 

"We should take a cab," Sam Winchester heard the young British woman, Clara, telling them.

He heard his brother sigh beside him. Sam knew Dean didn't like that he had to leave being Impala, his 'Baby,' in America.

"Yes, of course," Sam supplied, smiling at her, as she hailed a cab. Sam hoped he would be able to get a cab when the two Brits weren't around, as he had little experience with such things.

Clara went into the cab, and 'John Smith' followed after her. Sam was not sure that he trusted this 'John Smith.' Was there a more obvious fake name? He did suppose someone in the world would have to have the name, but _still_ , Sam didn't trust him and he knew his brother wouldn't either. _Besides_ , he thought, _who has a codename? And 'the Doctor'? Really?_ Either he was lying or British police were just _really_ weird.

Sam climbed into the vehicle after the man.

Dean just stared at him from outside the car, an unhappy expression on his face. "Scoot over, Sammy."

Sam tried to scoot over, but 'the Doctor' was in the way. "Sorry, Dean. I can't."

"Just a little bit…" Dean pushed Sam into the man beside him.

"Dean!" Sam complained as his brother squished in beside him, closing the cab door. Sam was now squished by his brother on the left and the stranger on his right.

Sam gave his brother the most annoyed glare he could manage. "We could have gotten another cab."

"Afraid to get close to people, Sam?" Dean teased.

Sam glared some more at his brother, who was squished against the door.

"The park please," Clara called, squished between the door and John Smith.

Sam tried to find a position for his long legs to sit comfortably in, while making sure his head wasn't hitting the ceiling of the cab, but just ended up kicking John and banging his head against the ceiling. "Sorry," he called quickly, cursing his tallness for once.

"It's alright," the man smiled at Sam with a genuine, warm smile. This surprised Sam, who normally didn't get such warm smiles from many strangers.

"Wait," Sam heard Cas call from outside the door, and before he could protest he had a trench coated angel sitting on him and his older brother. "Okay you may drive now."

"Cas!" Sam and Dean yelled, simultaneously, but it was too late. The cab was moving.

"Well, isn't this cozy." Clara called to them.

Dean sighed. "Cas, you can't just…ow! You're squishing my leg!"

"Sorry, Dean." Castiel shifted, and his shoulder went into Sam's head.

"Hey!"

"Sorry, Sam. There is insufficient room for five people in this vehicle."

The Doctor and Clara just laughed at their misfortune.

The cab ride was only a few blocks, but Sam would swear it was the longest ride he had ever been in. And he'd been on some _long_ and _annoying_ car rides.

Sam leapt out of the car after Dean and Castiel, feeling thankful for the fresh air and ability to move all of this limbs.

Dean straightened out his suit jacket. "I feel violated," he told Sam.

Sam grinned at his brother's discomfort, but silently agreed.

He looked to the other side of the cab to see Clara paying the cabbie with John beside her. "Thanks," Sam called over to the girl, who seemed rather normal compared to the strange other man.

The odd group of acquaintances walked along the side walk leading to the park.

"Why do you even have a codename?" Dean questioned.

"Why not? Codenames are cool!" He bounded across the park gleefully. "But crime scenes… now, crime scenes are just utterly fascinating!"

"Err…sorry…he gets excited easily," Clara explained, quickly running after him, leaving the two brothers and their angel behind.

"I told you, Sammy, British people are _weird_."

Sam didn't have any evidence to disprove that. "Yeah, I'm noticing…"

At the crime scene, an older man greeted the five people who were destined to be stuck together for an unfortunately long period of time.

"What are you doing at my crime scene?"

"We've been called in to investigate this case. We're from the FBI," Sam told the man, holding out his freshly printed fake FBI I.D. Dean did the same, while nudging Castiel to awkwardly pull out his I.D.

"I'm Dean Pascow, this is Sam Goldberg and Castiel Mason," Dean supplied.

"FBI?" The man furrowed his brow, breathing in deeply, "What's America got to do with this?"

"We just think you could use all the help you can get… Mister…"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade. And, to be honest, I don't think you're going to be much help. I've already had my best man on the case and he has nothing. I don't know if there is an explanation for what happened in this park."

"Well, we hope to provide… fresh insight on the case," Sam told him, certain his 'insight' would be helpful in the case.

The D.I. sighed, lifting up the crime scene tape. "Well, good luck."

Sam ducked under the tape as his brother and their angel followed. The D.I. paused as the Doctor and Clara ducked under.

"Wait… Are these two with you?" Lestrade asked the Winchesters.

"No, I'm Detective Inspector John Smith, codename the Doctor, and this is my assistant, Clara Oswald." The Doctor grinned wildly at Lestrade, pulling out his Identification. "We've also been called in to assist the investigation."

Lestrade frowned. "Am I really that bad at my job?"

"No, no, of course not. You do your job brilliantly." The Doctor grinned at the man.

"He merely provides a different perspective on things that could be essential to solving this case," Clara added, helpfully.

Lestrade's frown deepened. "Alright, come through."

When all five were through, they went on to the crime scene.

 _Too many bodies_ , was the first thought that went through Sam Winchester's head. He had seen more dead and dying people in his life than he could count, but he had never seen anything like this. Twenty people lay dead on park grass. Twenty people who had lives and family and friends. Sam Winchester frowned, trying to bury those thoughts into the back of his head, as he always tried to, without much success. He looked to his brother, who was clearly having similar thoughts. Dean's fists were clenched and his whole face looked sad.

"…Too many bodies, Sammy, too many…" Dean took a deep breath, and his expression turned to a determined one.

The two brothers walked over to where Castiel was crouched next to a young dead woman.

Sam smelled the air as he walked, smelling only the light breeze and trees. _No sulfur. No ectoplasm._

The angel frowned at the dead woman. "She just dropped dead after her heart stopped," he said, "the same with the others."

"What could do that?" Sam wondered aloud, "No sulfur, no ectoplasm. Not demons or ghosts…"

"I don't know," Dean commented, looking to Castiel, "Angels?"

The fallen angel shook his head. "This is not the work of an angel."

"Witches?" Dean questioned.

Sam shook his head, "Why would witches kill twenty random people? I don't see any hex bags…"

Sam stopped as the Doctor came over to crouch next to where them. He too looked sad. "I don't know what could have done this…" he shook his head, "I just don't see how it's possible."

Sam doubted the man knew as much as they did, but still agreed with him.

"Hey, boys!" a voice called, and the three men turned quickly and saw Clara waving at them. "Over here!"

The Doctor jumped up first, running over to his companion, as the others followed.

She held a bit of paper in her hand. "I found it in this woman's bag." She pointed to a nearby dead lady. "It says 'U O ME.' It's written in blood. Take a look."

Sam took the paper from her, looking at it carefully. "What does that mean?"

"Maybe somebody has a debt?" Dean supplied, "It could be unrelated."

"Or it could be a clue." The Doctor grinned, clearly very excited at the prospect of a clue.

Sam sighed. "Well, it's the only thing we've got." He looked around for some type of crime scene tech. "We should get it analyzed for DNA…"

"Need something analyzed?" A nearby man asked.

"Err…yes," Sam said, holding out the paper to the man wearing a protective suit. It didn't take a detective to work out that he was a crime scene tech, "Could you get this analyzed?"

Another woman walked up to them. She looked at Sam, wide-eyed. "You found evidence that Freak missed?"

Sam was very confused. "I…umm…"

"Actually, it was me that found it," Clara supplied. The Doctor patted her on the back, both grinning like idiots.

"Freak?" Castiel said, joining the conversation, "Do you mean that you have some sort of monster working within your department?"

The woman and the man laughed. Dean rolled his eyes.

"I suppose you could say that. You must be new here. I'm Sergeant Donovan, this is Anderson. He'll make sure the evidence gets processed."

Sam reluctantly handed the paper to Anderson, who looked at it carefully.

"Well, were Sam, Dean, and Castiel from the FBI, and these two are D.I. Smith and Miss Oswin," Sam informed her.

Donovan smiled at Clara. "Wow. The Freak was outsmarted by a girl. He'll never hear the end of this."

"You…owe…me…" Anderson said slowly, staring at the paper, "It's probably a message."

"Yeah, we got that," Sam noted, "We need you to get DNA on the blood."

"Yeah, I'll send it to our lab," the man replied, bagging the evidence.

"So…this 'Freak'" The Doctor said, "He works with you in crime scenes?"

Donovan snorted. "He's works with himself. Well… there's also that John Watson. It's a shame, he seems like such nice person."

"Is this 'John Watson' also a monster?" Castiel asked seriously, head tilted.

Dean glared at the angel, hopefully silencing him. "What my friend is trying to ask, is there any way we can get into contact with this man? You say he helps you solve a lot of cases?"

"Yeah. His name is Sherlock Holmes. He lives at 221B Baker Street. Be careful though, if you want to keep your sanity," Donovan informed them.

"More like if you want to keep yourself from shooting him, or even yourself." Anderson added.

 _These people are rather rude_ , thought Sam. Even so he thanked them, and the five unlikely acquaintances made their way back to London's streets.

"Off to see this Sherlock Holmes then?" Clara clarified.

"I guess so," Dean said.

"What kind of creature is he?" Castiel questioned.

"Dude, they didn't mean he was a monster," Dean answered the clueless angel.

Cas frowned. "But they called him a freak?"

Dean rolled his eyes again. Sam sighed. It was like telling a five year old not to pay attention to bullies. "He must be a just little weird or something, I'm sure he's fine."

"I hope he has fish fingers and custard, I'm starving!" The Doctor commented.

 _By the time we get there, we may be used to weird_ , Sam thought, watching the strange man with a 'codename.'

"We should get two cabs," Dean said, as Clara called a cab.

Everyone nodded their heads in agreement, as Sam hailed another cab.

"221B Baker Street," Sam told the cabbie.


	3. 221B Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group finally arrives at Baker Street to seek out Sherlock Holmes. Everyone is suspicious of each other, and John and Clara are done with them all.

Sherlock Holmes sat in his chair in 221B Baker Street, deep within his mind palace. _You owe me_ … _It has to be him_ , Sherlock thought, _it's the only explanation_. It was only a matter of how _he_ had done it. The nature of the dead bodies was only one of Sherlock's now major problems. There was a more pressing reason why it couldn't be _him_. Because he was _dead_ …

He could hear the clank of some dishes as his flatmate offered him tea for the sixth time. "Tea, Sherlock?"

"Yes, fine." Sherlock reluctantly took the tea, hoping it would stop John from bothering and questioning him further. John didn't need to get involved. Not again.

"Sherlock." Sherlock could tell John wasn't going to give up anytime soon. Sherlock sipped the tea. "You can't just sit around and sulk all day."

"I'm thinking, John, not sulking," Sherlock argued.

"You only prove my point."

"No, John. In what way does that prove your point?"

John sat down next to Sherlock, making a face that Sherlock would describe as a John-sympathy face. John sighed deeply…

"What, John?" Sherlock prompted, annoyed.

"Sherlock…you know, sometimes, you just can't solve a case. It just happens. Even to you. You have to just… accept that."

_No, I can't accept that, John. You don't understand. Not on this case. Not when he is involved. Not when he could cause so much damage. Not when he could hurt Lestrade, or Molly, or Mrs. Hudson. Not when you could be in danger._

Sherlock just grunted in response to John, turning away in an attempt to escape further questioning.

"Sherlock…"

"I'll solve the case, John."

"I…well, if anyone can, you can, Sherlock. I'm just saying that if you can't, that's alright too…"

Luckily, Sherlock was saved from further awkward emotional moments by the sound of the doorbell ringing. He jumped up instantly.

"Someone's at the door," John commented.

"Oh, thank you, John. I do love it when you point out the obvious."

Sherlock leaped down the stairs to the door before John could reply, though he knew his loyal companion would be following behind.

He opened the door to find three men standing outside the flat.

"Excuse me, we're looking for a Sherlock Holmes, with the police department…" one began, with a distinct American accent.

The tallest spoke up, reaching inside his suit jacket. "We're with the FBI. I'm…"

"No." Sherlock stated, before the man could pull out his fake I.D.

"Uhh…" the tallest continued. "What…?"

Sherlock noticed the other slightly shorter man stand unconsciously slightly in front of the taller man, indicating the unconscious need to protect him. Sherlock noticed the same slightly shorter man's right hand twitch towards a weapon that he did not have, probably lost on the plane ride from America. One of them wearing a trench coat just looked very confused.

"You're not from the FBI." Sherlock reached into the shorter man's jacket pocket, and quickly snatched his I.D.

The man stumbled slightly, unable to react in time to prevent this.

"Sherlock!" Sherlock heard John protest from behind him.

"What? Hey… give that back! I'll tell our supervisor about this…"

Sherlock snorted at him. "Please, let us not play silly games, 'Mr. Dean Pascow,'or whatever your real name might be. I've seen better fake I.D.s. You could have at least not used your real first name."

Dean's fist clenched and the three stared blankly at the detective. "How could you…?"

"I think he's the detective, Dean," the trench-coated man whispered.

"Yes, well done. If you keep working on that you could almost surpass the intelligence of Scotland Yard," Sherlock noted.

"Uh, thank you," the trench coated man said confusedly.

Dean rolled his eyes, unable to realize that Sherlock was actually not being sarcastic.

Sherlock smiled his best fake smile. "Now then, I'm Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, and this is my blogger, Doctor John Watson. Why don't you take your brother and your friend, come inside and tell us why you're really here. I'm sure John will make you tea. Maybe even coffee if you prefer!" He patted John on the shoulder and ran back into the flat.

John stared awkwardly at the three confused fake-FBI agents. He had no idea if they were dangerous or not, because Sherlock inviting them in was not an accurate way to tell such things. He knew they were trouble, as he'd been around plenty of that, and hoped they wouldn't immediately try to kill him.

"Umm, come in," he invited, and the three dumbfounded men followed John into the flat.

The four men stood around Sherlock in his chair.

"Err, make yourselves comfortable. I'll make some tea," John said, but the three still stood.

"We prefer to stand," Dean said.

"Yes, fantastic. Clearly, you aren't here to kill us, or you would have already…"

John was not really that reassured.

"…So, you're here for the case. Now, I will ask again: Who are you and _why_ are you here?" Sherlock whined impatiently.

"We might as well tell him, Dean." The taller one pointed out.

Dean sighed. "Fine, I'm Dean Winchester, this is my brother, Sam, and that's Castiel. We saw the case on the news and it appealed to our…special interests of...?"

"Weirdness?" Sam supplied.

"Yeah, weirdness," Dean agreed, "We help people…we hunt monsters, demons…"

"So do I," Sherlock remarked, though not talking about the same sort of monsters. "You came all the way here for this case? Well, you should get back to America soon. You can't solve it. Only I can."

Dean huffed. "Yeah, pal, well you don't know me."

Sherlock got up and stood face to face with Dean. "Really? I think I know you well enough."

"Sherlock…" John warned, but, as usual, his warnings were ignored, and Sherlock went into super deducing mode. It always ended badly.

Sherlock stood slightly taller than Dean. Dean just stared back firmly. "I know you travel a lot, you were willing to come all the way across the ocean just for a case. So, you're obsessive. Your work is all you have. Then again, what is your work? I know you handle weapons, guns, knives, whatever works at the time. You have calluses all over your hands, and your hands never shake in fear. You always carry a gun on you, you reached for it when you felt threatened by me, but it's not there because you couldn't bring it on the plane. You don't show it, but you've been beaten, stabbed, punched, many times; I can see every scar. But, these things don't bother you. Your work is filled with danger; you expect it. But, you're not FBI agents. Your suits are cheap and wrinkled, your I.D.s are clearly forged, but everyone falls for your lies because no one pays any attention to what is actually written on an I.D., they just accept it as true. You work closely with your brother, you don't work for any official organization. Then, you don't get paid for your work, that's not why you do it. So, you probably gamble or get money as you can, you could get enough to get by. I can tell you're very close to your brother, a sentiment you and I do not share. You subconsciously step in front of him when threatened, you clench your fist as I mention him. You must be the older brother. But the way you protect him; the way you would put your own life before his, I can see it in your face. You're more than an older brother; you feel a responsibility, a deeply-rooted responsibility to protect him, as if it's your sole purpose in life; the kind of responsibility a parent shows, which you had to replace. So, which parent was it that died?"

With that, Dean broke. He charged at Sherlock, punched him square in the nose, grabbing the sides of his coat, and shoved the detective against the wall. "It was _both_ …" Dean growled, raising his fist again.

"…always something I get wrong," Sherlock muttered. John could shoot his friend, sometimes.

"Oh… I'll show _you_ something that's wrong, you arrogant son-of-a—"

"DEAN!" Sam grabbed his brother by the shoulder before he could punch the detective in the face again. "He's had enough."

Sherlock wiped his bleeding nose. John sighed deeply, walking over to him. "Well, you're the first one to actually punch him in the face, but I'm really surprised that hasn't happened sooner." He gave an apologetic smile to the three men. "I'm sorry, he doesn't know what he's doing, he just really can't help himself…" John pushed a tissue onto the detective's bleeding nose.

"I'm fine, John…" Sherlock tried to protest, but didn't resist.

"It's…uh…its fine…" Sam stated, awkwardly. "We just…umm…hope we can work together to solve this case…"

"Of course!" John said, glaring at Sherlock and hoping he wouldn't speak, "We'd be happy to help you. If the case can actually be solved, that is…"

John discarded the bloody tissue, and reached for another.

John saw Sam nudge his brother.

"Yeah…sorry about the nose…" Dean mumbled, quietly.

"It's okay. I will fix it." John was surprised when the trench coated man, Castiel, spoke. He walked over the Sherlock.

"Oh, no, it's fine, I-" John began, but the man placed his fingers on Sherlock's nose, and a bright white light shone quickly. Then man took his hand away. John stared blankly at Sherlock's now completely normal and healed nose.

"John, why are you staring at me as if I suddenly turned into an alien?" Sherlock remarked.

"Your… your nose is healed…" John was confused, and tried to rationalize it, "he must have fixed it…" _in some new medical way_ …

"I am Castiel. I am an Angel of the Lord. I can use my power to heal you."

"Oh please, you're a tax accountant," Sherlock argued.

"This is merely a vessel that allows me to travel within your Earth. This is not my true form," Castiel explained, as if it were obvious.

"Yeah, I never thought angels could be real either," Dean said, "But, like I said, we deal with the weird. Angels, demons, ghosts, vampires, the freaking apocalypse. You name it, we fought it."

"Sure…" John said, unconvincingly.

Sherlock just stared at them. "That's not possible."

"Well, sorry to break your little science bubble, but it is," Dean replied. You just saw it with your own eyes."

"I think I'll go make some tea."

But, before John could run away to the safety of his tea-making, the doorbell rang again.

"I'll get it." John ran down to the door to avoid any further confusion. Unfortunately, the man at the door could only lead to much more confusion.

The man wore a rather silly looking bowtie and a tweed suit and a rather normal looking woman stood behind him.

"Hello!" the man beamed, whipping out a piece of paper. "I'm Detective Inspector John Smith, codename the Doctor, and this is my assistant, Clara Oswald. We're looking for a Sherlock Holmes, and possibly a few FBI agents, if they've arrived already."

John looked closely at the badge the man held. He was pretty sure it looked very real, as he had seen a similar badge many times when Sherlock stole it from D.I. Lestrade.

"Yes, they're all here. I assume it's about the case?" _When did it get to be 'the case'?_ John wondered.

"Oh yes, it is of course about the case!"

"Well, do come in then. I'm Doctor John Watson; I…work with Sherlock."

"Ooh, a doctor! It is a pleasure to meet you!" The man shook Watson's hand wildly, and walked up the stairs to the flat; Clara followed after him.

"Well, everyone" John Watson said, as they all reached the top, "We apparently have more visitors." John pointed at Sherlock. "That's Sherlock, over there."

However, Sherlock walked over the the both of them, frowning quizzically at John Smith.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes! The great detective! It's wonderful to meet you! I', Detective Inspector John Smith, codename the Doctor, and this is my assistant, Clara Oswald." He his badge up in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock's frown deepened. "That's just a blank piece of paper."

"No, Sherlock," John corrected, "It's a badge. It's not blank."

"Really, John? I like to think you're at least slightly less of an idiot than everyone else, but even Donovan could realize it's blank. Probably not Anderson, though…"

"Well, you really are a clever detective, then, aren't you?" 'John Smith' grinned at Sherlock. "Psychic paper. It doesn't work on clever people."

"Soo… you're not really from the FBI…" Sam walked over to them, with his brother and Castiel.

"No, I'm not, sorry…" 'John Smith' confessed, shrugging.

"Are you all fakes here?" John Watson sighed, rubbing his head. He was beginning to get a headache.

"We're all just here to solve this case," Dean reaffirmed.

"Yes!" the man with the bow tie agreed, "Just here to help. And, not to brag, but I knew there was something off about you guys."

"Something off about us?" Dean asked, incredulously, shaking his head. "I suppose, while we're here, I'm Dean Winchester, that's my brother Sam, and Castiel."

"They apparently hunt monsters," John Watson supplied, helpfully.

"Wonderful!" 'John Smith' exclaimed. "John Smith is obviously a fake name, but you'd be surprised how many accept it. I'm the Doctor."

"That's not a name, it's a title," Sherlock interrupted.

"It's my name."

"No, it's not, you're lying," Sherlock pressed, staring intently at the man, "You don't believe that."

"It is what people call me."

"Another non-answer. Why won't you tell us your name? Who are you?"

"I told you. I'm the Doctor. I help people. Like these lovely gentlemen here."

"No you're nothing like them. They are an open book. I can see everything about them. You… you're avoiding the question again, Doctor."

"Yes, I seem to be very good at that." The Doctor said, staring back at Sherlock curiously, "What can tell about me?"

"Sorry, what?"

"You said you can read them like an open book." He gestured to the Winchesters. "What about me?"

"You?" Sherlock stared intently into the Doctor's gaze. "You make no sense."

"How so?"

Sherlock sighed deeply. "You're clothes are ridiculous, you grin at everything like a four-year-old, but you're not. You won't tell us anything about yourself. You're eyes are so…old…so impossible; you look as though you have seen everything, you act as if you have lost everything, yet you are so young, and act like nothing has happened. You bury everything under your ridiculous mask. I don't know what you do. You do not work with weapons, you have no callouses on your hands, but your eyes tell a different story. You have wear on your shoes, so you run a lot. Do you run from the danger? Yet, now you come running towards it, with fake badges and an impossible case, caring little about fake FBI agents. Everything about you contradicts itself. How can your eyes show so much, but your body show so little? What have those eyes seen, Doctor? Why do you call yourself that? You are clearly not any sort of medical doctor, so doctor who?"

The Doctor stared intently back at the detective, giving him a small sad smile. "That's very good, detective," the Doctor said quietly. "You are very good." He patted Sherlock on the shoulder, gently. "I'm afraid you won't get the answers to your questions."

"But…" Sherlock protested.  
"Shh…" the Doctor silenced him. "It's alright, there are some things that you are better off not knowing."

"Well," Clara announced, suddenly, "I'm still Clara. No fake names here. I babysit sometimes, and sometimes I travel with the Doctor."

"That's great, Clara, would you like some tea?" John asked, desperately confused about everything ever in existence at that moment, and hoping to do something normal.

"Yes," Clara emphasized, "That would be great, thanks." She leaned in to John, and whispered, "Sorry about the confusion, but I can't say it gets any easier…"

John laughed, as the two walked into the kitchen. "Tell me about it. That's the story of my life. Or whatever's left of it after this case is over."

Clara nodded in agreement, rubbing her head.

"Headache?" John prompted.

"Yes," Clara said.

"I'll get some Advil."

"Got anything stronger?" Clara joked.

"Unfortunately not. I probably have some toes in the fridge, though."

"Some _what_?"

"It's a long story."

"Isn't it always?"


	4. Just Go With It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A much needed-discussion occurs and they all visit the morgue.

After several sups of tea, much confused explanation of 'who in the world are you all anyway?', distrust, avoiding of questions, probably some more lying, and much more confusion, the seven people in 221B Baker Street were still very distrustful and extremely confused about each other and everything else, though they seemed to be approaching an unfortunate reality of having to work together to solve a rather confusing and impossible case. Perhaps the tea helped. John hoped it did.

"So," Sam began, taking a sip of the tea which he discovered he liked a lot, to which Dean would later make fun of him for, "What have we got so far?"

"Besides a whole lot of dead people," Dean added.

Watson stared at Sherlock, who looked deep in the mind palace, so John decided to speak for himself. "Well, they seemed to all have died of a heart attack," John Watson explained, "Normally I would say it's a coincidence—but there are just too many. It's extremely unlikely for a bunch of healthy people at the park to just suddenly drop dead; it just doesn't happen."

"In our experience, there are no coincidences," Dean said.

The Doctor nodded in agreement. "Everything is caused by something else."

"Well, we can rule out demons," Dean said, gaining some weird looks from those not wholly convinced about the existence of demons at that moment.

Sam counted off on his fingers. "Yeah, no sulfur; and no ectoplasm, so no ghosts; no hex bags, no witches..."

More weird incredulous looks.

"And no angels," Castiel spoke up, "I've heard nothing in their chatter. Angels are powerful, but they leave marks when they kill."

"You mean they no longer have eyes," Dean added.

"What!?" John exclaimed.

"No eyes...?" Clara was also confused.

"Long story," Sam said.

John and Clara rubbed their heads and took another Advil.

"Well," the Doctor began, and all eyes turned to him, "I have no idea what this could have been."

"Really, doc? Aren't you just a big help," Dean complained.

"Oi! Don't call me doc! It's 'the Doctor.' And for your information, I know more than all of you combined—" Sherlock grunted. "—It just happens to be that I do not currently know what could have caused this phenomenon because I have never encountered—"

"He means he doesn't know," Clara translated.

"Yeah, we got that."

Everyone turned to Sherlock, who continued to stare into space.

"So, got anything, detective?" Sam asked.

"Not particularly."

"What do you mean 'not particularly'?"

"I mean, shut up, and let me think; your incoherent blabber is distracting."

"Hey!" Sam protested.

"Were not incoherent!" the Doctor insisted.

"We do not babble," Casiel said seriously.

"We...make sense..." Dean tried to begin.

"We really don't make any sense at all," Sam confessed.

"True," the Doctor agreed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And so you blabber on."

There was silence for a moment after this.

"Well, we've got some evidence processing," Sam reminded everyone, "It could give us a lead. I could do some research..."

"Wait!" John interrupted, "You found evidence?"

"Yeah," Dean affirmed.

"After Sherlock left and didn't find any evidence?" John questioned.

"It's a note found on one of the bodies, a woman. It's written in blood."

"What does it say, then?"

"You owe me," Sherlock said, startling everyone, "It said 'You owe me'"

John spit out his tea. "Wait, so you knew and you didn't?—But, Sherlock that's—he's—that's not possible—you can't—why didn't you tell me!?"

"It wouldn't have helped if I told you."

"Sherlock! You could have just told me! I mean, that is an important detail to just leave out! You know it's _him_ , it just has to be _him_."

"Excuse me, Doctor Watson," the Doctor tapped John on the shoulder, "Anyone care to tell us what's going on."

"Moriarty... it must be Moriarty." John ran a hand nervously through his hair.

"Moriarty?"

Sherlock began to explain. "My arch-nemesis. Well, besides my brother, but anyways..."

"He tried to convince Sherlock to throw himself off a building to save me, D.I. Lestrade, and our landlady, Mrs. Hudson. He _almost_ succeeded, but Sherlock stopped him. I just don't see how he could be capable of this."

"Well," Sam began, "Are you sure he's human?"

"I wouldn't call him human..." John began, "The thing is he's...Well, he's dead. He shot himself."

"I saw him die," Sherlock added.

"Right," Dean said, "Well, maybe we can't rule out ghosts?"

"Ghosts?" Clara commented, "Of course, you think an angry ghost killed all those people?"

"Well, we can't be sure, there were no signs of a ghost at the scene," Sam stated, turning to Sherlock, "Are we sure that this Moriarty has done this?"

"It could be no one else," Sherlock affirmed, "It's just a matter of how he did it, and more importantly what he will do next..."

"Maybe he isn't dead," the Doctor suggested, "You say he shot himself, but maybe it was a trick. In my experience, things that you sure are very dead, turn out to be very alive."

"I know the feeling," John glared at Sherlock.

"Are you sure he was human before the whole dead thing?" Dean asked.

"He was a monster," Sherlock said, "But he was in fact human. And his is most certainly dead."

"Sooo," Clara attempted to follow, "Are we back at the ghost thing again?"

Everyone sighed deeply, which was followed by a moment of silence.

"Well," Sam spoke up, "Since we're not sure what's going on, we should go by the only evidence we have, which should be at the forensic department."

Since no one protested, Sam took that as an agreement. He stood up. "Well, let's get going, then."

"Wait, how many cabs do we need?" Dean worried.

"None." All heads turned to Castiel as he spoke, "I will take us there."

Sherlock huffed. "You mean by flying us there with your angel wings?" He stared at the trench-coated man incredulously.

Castiel furrowed his brow and tilted his head to the side, confused. "Err... yes, I do. We will arrive there almost instantaneously, much faster than riding in a taxi."

"It's kinda like..." Dean searched for a word that could describe it, "teleporting."

Sam gave his brother a disapproving look, apparently having a better way to describe it. "It's more like apparating... like Harry Potter."

Everyone stared at Sam.

"You just had to go there, didn't you, Sam," Dean disapproved.

The Doctor grinned, "Well, I don't know about you guys, but, I'm in!"

"Well, I'll go get a cab," Sherlock began to walk away.

"Wait!" Sam called, "Just give us a chance."

"If it doesn't work, you can prove us all wrong," Dean said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but reluctantly agreed at the prospect of proving everyone else was in idiot.

"Right!" the Doctor exclaimed, clapping his hands together and turning to Castiel, "Now, how do we do this?"

Castiel held out his arm. "Everyone hold on to my arm and do not let go."

Six hands hesitantly grabbed the angel's arm.

"Geronimo," the Doctor said, causing Sherlock to glare at him.

Clara glanced at Sam. "You were right about the whole Harry Potter—"

Before she could finish her sentence, they were gone.

As they appeared in the lab, the Doctor immediately collided with a table, as the rest struggled to maintain their balance and sanity.

"Wow!" the Doctor exclaimed, bouncing up and staring at the angel, "A proper angel, wings and all. I never thought I'd see this day." He grinned wildly and shook a very confused Castiel's hand. "You are fantastic. Beautiful wings!"

"Thank you, Doctor," Castiel replied awkwardly.

Dean clutched his stomach, "I don't think my breakfast will ever get used to this."

"We just..." John began, "Did we just teleport!?" He rubbed his head. "I am so not ready for this..."

Clara looked at John. "Well, I can't say I've ever teleported before either..."

"Technically, we didn't teleport, we flew," Castiel stated.

Everyone glared at the angel.

John looked around, trying to find Sherlock. "Sherlock?" he asked when he found him, "You alright?"

"Oh yes I'm great, John! Fantastic," Sherlock responded, talking a bit too fast and exasperatedly, "I've just been flown here through the wings of an angel." He shook his head quickly, breathing in deeply. "I can't..." He buried his head in his hands, "It does make any sense, John... It defies all logic..." The consulting detective sat down on the floor and curled up in a ball with his hands over his face.

John crouched down next to him. "Sherlock! Are you going to be alright? I..."

"Mind palace!" Sherlock shouted at John.

"Sherlock..."

"No, John! I _need_ to think!" Sherlock stated.

"Okay, alright," John was reluctant to leave the detective on the floor, but knew he had to let him think.

"Right," John walked up to the rest of the group, "Next time we take a cab."

Before anyone could comment, a woman in a lab coat rushed through the door.

"John," she greeted, looking nervously around the room at the other people

"Hey, Molly," John responded, "these are my...um... my associates..."

The Doctor immediately ran up to her, shaking her hand and grinning. "Hello! I'm the Doctor! It's so very nice to meet you! You look like a very important science-y person!"

Molly stared dumbfounded at him. "Umm, yes, I'm Molly Hooper, I—I work here..."

"Fantastic," the Doctor exclaimed, "I'm the Doctor, this is Clara, Sam and Dean Winchester, Castiel, and I think you know John. Take us to the evidence!"

The Doctor burst through the doors of the forensic building, and Molly and the rest followed after him.

"Where's Sherlock?" Molly asked suddenly.

John sighed. "He's busy right now."

"So," Sam began, as they reached the lab tables, "What did you find?"

"I—um, I analyzed the note you found, and it's defiantly written in blood. And," she made eye-contact with John, "You're not going to like what I found, John. I re-analyzed it many times, and I checked the lab equipment just to make sure, but it has to be true. I don't know how, but it's...it's him, John. It's Moriarty's blood."

"Of course it is, Molly," a deep baritone sounded behind them, and John looked behind him to see Sherlock standing over them.

"Sherlock? Are you—?"

"Yes, John. I told you, I just needed a moment to think. Now," he turned to the Winchester brothers. "Can ghosts bleed? Tell me about them."

Molly stared at Sherlock, wide-eyed. "Umm, Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

"Ghosts, Molly, I'm talking about ghosts, or demons, or monsters, or angels, or whatever could have caused Jim Moriarty to come back from the dead after shooting himself in the face and dying," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly.

Now it was John's turn to be confused. "Wait, Sherlock, I thought you didn't—"

"I have thought about the facts, John. I know that Moriarty is most certainly dead, and that he is most certainly the one who killed all those people, or at least the one behind it. Those people could not have been killed by any human. When you have eliminated all possibilities you thought were possible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. I have to re-evaluate my beliefs, John."

John just stared at Sherlock, in shock.

Sherlock turned back to the brothers. "Do I have to ask again? Can ghosts bleed? What about demons?"

"Ghosts? I don't think they can bleed, but demons can... But, like we said, the evidence doesn't point to anything that we have heard of before," Sam answered.

"Of course, you said no ectoplasm or sulfur." Sherlock thought aloud.

"I—I also analyzed the paper the note is written on," Molly spoke up quietly.

"Yes, of course! What did you find?" Sherlock exclaimed excitedly.

"I—uh—well it's a special type of paper used only in old printing presses..."

"Aha! Yes, of course," Sherlock put his hands on the side of his face, thinking for a brief moment, "I know just the place, and old shop just down the street; it's been rundown for years now." Sherlock quickly turned up his coat collar. "The game is on!" He started towards the exit.

"It is!" the Doctor quickly ran after him, "I might borrow that line."

"No, you won't," Sherlock replied.

John Watson and Clara Oswald ran after the two men.

"Wait!" Sam called after them, "How do we know this isn't a trap set for us by Moriarty, or whoever is behind this? We could be doing exactly what they want us to do!"

"It's defiantly Moriarty and—" Sherlock began, but was cut off by the Doctor.

"—It is most certainly a trap," the Doctor finished, smiling at the detective, who just glared back.

"Wait," Dean said, "We know he has set a trap for us, but you are still planning on running right into the danger?"

"Yup," the Doctor answered.

"Of course!" Sherlock exclaimed.

John frowned, and gestured to Sherlock. "I'm just following him to...make sure he doesn't get himself killed," he said quickly.

Clara nodded at the Doctor. "Yeah, me, too."

Silence ensued.

Finally, Dean shrugged. "Right," he said, "Let's go, Sam."

The two brothers followed the group, and Castiel followed close behind them.

"If we know this is a trap, why are we planning to walk into it?" the angel asked no one in particular.

"Cas..." Dean sighed.

"Just go with it," Clara advised.

"Just go with it?" Cas replied, "Is that what we are doing? 'Just going with it'?"

"Yes," Clara said, "That's what we usually do."


	5. Angels and Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group has many roadblocks in their journey.

"So, doctor who?"

Sherlock led the seven people walked along the London sidewalk, headed to their unknown destination at an abandoned printing shop with surely held Moriarty's trap.

"I told you Sherlock, my name is not—"

"No," Sherlock replied, not convinced and annoyed by the Doctor's inability to give a straight answer, as he led the group around a corner. "Not your name. I asked doctor _who_?"

"Ahh, a complicated question."

"Doctor..." Sherlock sighed deeply and picked up his pace, "Have I mentioned avoiding the question? What are you so afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid of anything," The Doctor replied, speeding up to match Sherlock's pace, "I'm a traveler. I don't stay in one place for too long, and I usually end up, you know..."

"In a dangerous situation like this one." Sherlock finished. "Still not a complete answer."

"Well, let's just say I never get a proper vacation."

Sherlock snorted, "Vacation. How dull." He walked quickly on ahead, and the Doctor almost had to run to keep up.

"We could use a vacation!" Dean Winchester called, with the others trailing behind him, attempting to keep up to the two geniuses, "Can you guys slow down up there, it's not a race!"

The Doctor grinned wildly. "I would beat you all in a race!" He turned to Sherlock, "What do you think, detective?"

"I will not engage in any of your childish nonsense," Sherlock replied, glaring at the childish man with his ridiculous bowtie.

"So, you think you can't beat me, then?" the Doctor provoked.

"No!" Sherlock snapped, "I just... I mean, I obviously have superior knowledge and athletic—"

"Then prove it!" the Doctor suddenly broke into a sprint as he spotted the abandoned building at the end of the street.

Sherlock sighed deeply, but quickly ran after the Doctor, determined to prove he was superior in running.

The five others stood confused.

"Great job, Dean. Now they're racing each other into the danger," Sam complained.

"Well, Sam, we'll just have to run after them into danger," Dean explained.

As Clara, Sam, Dean, and John began to run after the Doctor and the detective, Castiel disappeared from the sidewalk.

Nearing the abandoned building, Sherlock ran after the Doctor, nearly catching up, when suddenly a figure appeared into existence directly in front of the detective, sending him face first into who he realized was the trench-coated angel. Before Sherlock could do something about their imminent collision with the ground, they both disappeared again, reappearing in an upright position in front of the building, with the Doctor standing beside him.

Sherlock blinked rapidly, adjusting to his new upright, and no longer falling position.

"I win," the Doctor grinned.

"Oh, please, if I hadn't collided with the..." Sherlock frowned at Castiel.

"Angel of the Lord." Castiel clarified.

"Yes, that." Sherlock stated, annoyed at the thought of supernatural creatures existing, "I would have won; I was catching up to you."

"No, that doesn't count, you weren't catching up fast enough."

"Yes I was, I was waiting until you were out of breath to use my remaining speed to catch—"

"No, no," the Doctor interrupted, "At the speed you were going I calculated you would have insufficient breath to speed up enough to pass me..." he paused, shrugging. "I mean, you could have gotten a little bit faster there at the end, aside from any angel interference, but based on estimating your average lung capacity remaining and rate of motion compared to my current lung capacity situation—"

"I would have surpassed you," Sherlock interrupted loudly, staring intensely at the Doctor, as if enticing him to challenge his words. "I know, I calculated it, too."

"Well, then, you've calculated it wrong," the Doctor claimed, facing the detective, equally as determined.

"Wow!" Dean exclaimed, jumping in between the two men, "Calm down, there, Mr. and Mrs. Algebra! I can feel my social status lowering the more you talk!"

Sherlock opened his mouth to declare a smart remark relating to the lowering of IQ, when John seemed to appear out of nowhere, and stood (or rather stomped) on Sherlock's foot.

The detective grimaced in pain, and glared at John. "What was that for?" he exclaimed, innocently.

"You know what that was for, Sherlock," John replied.

"I'm not sure I do, John. I didn't say anything...yet."

"Guys, please," Sam interjected calmly, but firmly, "If we're going to do this, we're going to have to work together, and we can't continue to fight amongst ourselves."

Everyone turned to stare at Sam, in silence.

"I agree!" Clara declared after a short moment of silence.

"Right," Sherlock agreed, finally, "Of course."

The Doctor nodded, "We should go inside and investigate."

"Alright," Dean reached again for a gun he didn't have anymore, frowning. "Man, where can I get a gun around here?"

John produced a pistol from his jacket. "Sorry, they're illegal here," he commented.

"So... you have one because...?" Dean questioned.

"Army doctor," John replied, cocking the gun.

"Yes," Sherlock said, quickly, "Still illegal." John shrugged in response. Sherlock furrowed his brow, his mind calculating the motives behind his former enemy. "Moriarty could be in there, or he could not, so be prepared for anything, and don't be fooled by his games."

"Games?" Dean laughed slightly, "We've dealt with worse."

"No, not with his games," Sherlock said, darkly.

"So, don't play games with the evil mastermind; got it," the Doctor said, nervously.

"I'll go in first," John claimed, "Everyone, stay close behind me."

And so, the seven unlucky heroes entered the abandoned printing building, and found there to be, anti-climactically, lots of spider webs, some old printing machinery, and a whole lot of dark nothingness usually associated with buildings that are abandoned.

"Do we have the wrong address?" the Doctor whispered to the group, as Sam and Dean both pulled out flashlights, which were not illegal in Britain.

"Well, it does give off a creepy vibe," Clara suggested, "Maybe a ghostly vibe?"

"It's possible," Sam whispered back, "I'll check for EMF."

"And maybe a light switch," Dean suggested.

Sherlock walked around the darkened room, finding nothing out of the ordinary. "Right here," Sherlock answered, switching on the lights, which flickered slowly on.

"Let there be light!" a humorous voice with an Irish accent called out. The seven acquaintances quickly realized they were not alone in the building.

A small man in a tidy suit stood in the center of the room, grinning madly. "Hello, Sherlock," he greeted, with a calm voice, which wavered slightly as each syllable was tinged with a hint of madness that threatened to burst. "I thought you might come. Did you like my invitation? I rather thought it was a personal best. It was a nice park, though; It's a shame they had to close it."

"Moriarty," Sherlock clarified, causing the rest of the group to stiffen.

John aimed his gun directly at the small man's head. "Don't move any closer!" he exclaimed.

The criminal smiled, and daringly moved a step forward, causing John to fire a bullet to his location, which promptly hit a faraway printing press, as Moriarty appeared instantly the front of Sherlock.

"Must you always bring your pet, Sherlock? He always causes trouble."

"You were dead," Sherlock diverted the conversation.

"Ohhh, yes, I was very, very, defiantly dead. But you weren't there; you didn't keep your promise," Moriarty pouted, "You should have seen it, Sherlock. Hell was such a disappointment; I really think I expected too much from it. It was just so boooooring."

"So you're just a demon," Dean butted in.

 _And he was just a man before that_ , Sherlock thought, _so what is he capable of now?_

James Moriarty laughed dangerously. "Well, yes, I have been informed that I am a demon. I even made a few deals to get my old body back. I must say it was rather worth it." He straightened out is suit and turned to Sherlock again, grinning devilishly. "All these demon stuff really changes everything, doesn't it, Sherlock? I had to make a lot of deals to get out of that place, but it was very worthwhile; I even met a few new friends. I find that teleportation—"

At that time, the demonic criminal was cut off, as Sam Winchester lunged forward at him, demon-killing blade in hand. Unfortunately, the younger Winchester tackled thin air, and stumbled awkwardly through the consulting criminal's image.

"Oops, sorry, Sammy. I forgot to mention the whole projection thing; I'm not actually here at all. Though I do wonder how you and your brother managed to get that knife through airport security. Then again, I wouldn't put it past you," Moriarty—or rather, the image of Moriarty—shrugged.

"Hey, how do you know my brother!?" was all Dean demanded, which was rather predictable to Sherlock, as he was the protective older brother. Sherlock vaguely wondered how much Mycroft would be willing to protect him if a threatening situation would arise, and promptly decided Mycroft would send half of the British government to save him, and probably succeed due to vast amounts of surveillance all across London.

"Oh, down below I've been told a lot about the great Sam and Dean Winchester, or rather about your continued annoyance. I'm told that you are very persistent for such ordinary men; then again, I wouldn't classify you as ordinary. I mean, how many times have you died in the past few years? At least it's not Tuesday..." Moriarty's projection paced over to Castiel and grinned. "You even have your very own _guardian angel_ , Dean!"

Dean tensed despite the presence of the hologram, also apparently protective of the angel. "Well, we live up to our reputation; you can be sure of that."

Moriarty grinned, "I really do hope so. It would be a very boring game if you didn't." His projection paced over to the Doctor. "Hmm, but you are different, aren't you, Doctor?"

The Doctor held Moriarty's gaze. "I really would like my Tardis back, if you're done messing around with it."

Moriarty laughed. "I hoped you'd notice I borrowed your projector."

Sherlock saw the concern masked upon the Doctor's face, and wondered what the "Tardis" could be that was causing his nemesis's projection, and decided that it was probably not good for Moriarty to have control of it, based upon the Doctor's face. Sherlock wondered if it had any relations to who the Doctor was...

"You really shouldn't mess with her," the Doctor warned, "You have no idea what the consequences of changing time could be."

Moriarty laughed, again. "Oh, don't worry. I won't mess up anything _important_... But you on the other hand..." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Do they even know who you are or what you are, Doctor? Or should I call you Thete?—it does have a nice ring to it. Do they know what you have done, even to your own people?... You know they won't ever trust you if you tell them..."

The Doctor glared at the hologram with a dark intensity that Sherlock had never seen before in the normally cheery man. "Where do you get your information from? You don't know who I am."

"Oh, but I do, Doctor, from the best sources. I must say you are far more interesting than anyone else here..." the hologram then glanced at Sherlock. "Oh sorry, Sherly. I mean no offense, of course!... But I am getting carried away. I am merely here to introduce you all to my new game, and show you my first move. I do hope you enjoy them, and please don't die too quickly; the game becomes a very boring and quick one if you do that... Well, I'll call you later."

The hologram disappeared suddenly after waving goodbye.

Dean glared at Sherlock once he was gone. "Wow, what a charming guy," he commented.

"He'll have something here for us," Sherlock began, "A clue."

"Yeah, well, all I see is an abandoned warehouse. The man's a nutcase." Dean turned to the Doctor, his hand again twitching for the gun he left behind. "And what the Hell was he talking about, Doc? Is there anything we should know about you that you might have forgotten to mention? Like, I don't know, your real name, 'Thete'?"

The Doctor shook his head. "No, no, it's just a name I had at University: Theta Sigma. It doesn't mean anything; it's just he couldn't have known. All of the people who knew that are... far away from here."

"So, we can assume he knows the truth about your past then, too," Sherlock commented, searching a nearby closet for anything out of the ordinary. "Or I suppose you'll say he was lying about that one."

The Doctor sighed. "My past is not important right now. We have to focus on finding Moriarty. You'll just have to trust me."

Sherlock laughed as he discarded an old stack of papers from the closet, and gestured to the Winchesters. "You picked the wrong group if you want trust, Doctor."

At this moment, the conversation was interrupted, as Sherlock saw a man with pure black eyes materialize in front of him, dressed like an average pedestrian. He jumped back instantly, as the rest of the group turned to stare. "Demon?" Sherlock guessed, slowly backing away.

"Demon!" Dean affirmed, moving towards the demon despite his lack of weapons, but Sam was quicker.

Sam quickly rearmed himself with his blade, running towards the demon that had Sherlock cornered in a corner of the building. He lunged at the unsuspecting, and the knife almost made contact with the demon's back... When the Doctor appeared behind Sam and tackled pushed Sam out of the way before he could stab the demon; Sam stumbled forward for the second time that day, quickly regaining his balance before he fell to the floor again, turning his knife towards the Doctor.

"You'll kill him!" the Doctor exclaimed, throwing his hands up in surrender.

"That's the idea!" Sam replied, as the Doctor prevented him from attacking the demon again, attempting to hold back the larger Winchester.

Castiel appeared beside them, arm outstretched towards the demon and the Doctor gripped the angel's arm.

"But if he's a demon, than he must be possessing someone! You can't just murder an innocent person!" the Doctor pleaded, "There has to be another way."

Castiel and Sam stared back at the Doctor, as Sherlock felt an invisible force pin him up against the wall, choking him. "Hello!" he managed to choke out, "Still... being...attacked..."

Sam released himself from the Doctor's grip, and ran over to the demon, stabbing it in its arm, and releasing Sherlock from its invisible grasp and making the detective fall to the floor. The demon called out in pain, as Dean appeared by Cas and Sam's side, all three wrestling the demon to the floor. "C'mon, Sammy!" Dea called, "We got him held down!"

" _Exorcizamus te_ ," Sam began to chant, as he struggled to help his brother hold the demon down, " _omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, et secta diabolica, Ergo draco maledicte et section, Ergo draco maledicte et legio secta diabolica, Ut Ecclésiam tuam secúra tibi fácias servire libertáte, te rogámus, audi nos._ "

The Winchesters released the demon as black smoke rose from the man's mouth, traveling down into the floor. The man who had been a demon jumped up quickly, glancing fearfully around the building. "Who are you?" he called out, "What am I—what am I doing here!?"

"You're alright, now" Dean told the man, "You were unconscious, and we found you lying in here... You better get out of here." He flashed his FBI badge at the man. "We're from the FBI. It's not safe in here."

The man stared confusedly at Dean. "From—from America?"

Dean sighed, impatient. "Yes, it's a very special case we're consulting in. You'll see it all over the news. Now, get out of here, go on."

"Err... yes, sir." The man glanced quickly around the room again, before turning to leave.

"What was that?" the Doctor asked curiously, once the man had left.

"An exorcism," Sam answered, looking at the Doctor. "You were right. We could have killed an innocent man."

"An exorcism!?" John Watson exclaimed, rubbing his face into his hands.

"Of course it's an exorcism..." Clara said, sighing.

Sherlock wiped the dust off of his coat. "We—we can assume Moriarty left that for us," the detective said, voice slightly higher after being almost choked by the demon.

"Let's just hope that's all he left for us," Dean said, doubtfully, as Sherlock resumed looking around the building for any signs of a clue.

"Stairs," Sherlock called out, as he entered through a door with a stairway inside of it.

"Well, that's promising," the Doctor called from behind Sherlock, as the others came over to the stairs. "There's probably nothing dangerous waiting for us at the top."

"You three go that way," Sherlock gestured to the Winchesters and the angel, "the Doctor and Clara will go left, and John and I will go down this hall," Sherlock ordered as the group discovered a large amount of diverging hallways at the top of the stairway. "Shout for me if you find anything out of the ordinary. We'll cover more ground this way." _And I'll be away from your madness for a moment_ , Sherlock thought.

The other looked as if they were about to disagree, but seemed to think better of this.

"Right," Dean agreed, "Let's go, Sam, Cas, follow me... and, Mr. Genius over there, don't you forget to call for us if you find any more demons."

"Yes, yes, fine," Sherlock agreed, without thought, grabbing John's arm and heading down a hallway, as the three groups went down separate hallways. "Let's go, John."

The detective and the blogger found more dry cobwebs and dusty paper as the made their way through the entanglement of hallways. The pair searched through a bunch of empty rooms without any success.

"Sherlock, I really don't think there is anything—" Sherlock heard John cut off abruptly, only to turn around to find the former army doctor pointing his gun at another man with deeply black shining eyes.

"Demon, John!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"Yeah, I got that," John called back, as the gun instantly flew out of John's hand due to some sort of demonic telekinetic powers.

Sherlock suddenly tacked the demon, only to have been shoved off it and thrown into a nearby stack of dusty boxes. From his position on the floor struggling with boxes, Sherlock could hear John's struggled breathing.

" _Exorcizamus te_ ," Sherlock began, remembering the excorcism that Sam had used, and quickly regaining his footing, " _omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, et secta diabolica, Ergo draco maledicte et section, Ergo draco maledicte et legio secta diabolica, Ut Ecclésiam tuam secúra tibi fácias servire libertáte, te rogámu—_ "

Sherlock was cut off suddenly as the demon slammed him into the wall, clearly noticing the exorcism that would lead to its doom. " _Auuuud_..." Sherlock choked out to no avail, as he felt his lungs struggling for a breath. He could feel the life draining out of him as he flailed helplessly...

" _Audi nos!_ " John called out suddenly, as Sherlock violently collided with the floor for a second time, and he heard the quiet hiss of the black smoke leaving the demon's mouth.

The scared man that had been possessed by the demon peered cautiously at Sherlock, as he pulled himself off of the floor.

"Scotland Yard..." Sherlock choked out, holding out Lestrade's I.D. badge. "It's very—very dangerous in here; get out!"

The man stared at the two men with wide eyes before running quickly out of the room.

"You remembered," Sherlock said, once the man had left.

John nodded his head. "Yeah, I did."

The two men breathed heavily in silence for a moment.

"Sherlock, did we just kill a demon?"

"No, John... technically we exorcised it."

John looked at Sherlock, and giggled slightly, grinning wildly. "The things we get ourselves into, Sherlock..."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile back, and before they knew it, the two grown men burst into fits of giggles because they just _exorcised_ a _demon_.

"Hey!" Sherlock vaguely heard Dean's voice shout, as he appeared next to John and Sherlock, as he was closely followed by Sam, Cas, the Doctor, and Clara. "What's going on!?" Dean held a flashlight firmly in his right hand, shining it on the madly giggling men.

"We just..." Sherlock began, as he regained control of himself.

" _Exorcised_ a demon," John finished, laughing slightly again, and Sherlock grinned at the confused Winchester.

"Right..." Dean said, lowering his flashlight. Sam sheathed his demon-killing blade.

"Find anything interesting?" Clara asked, breaking the awkward silence that had built up.

"No," Sherlock replied, regaining his sanity, and returning to a blank facial expression. "We only have one more room left to check in this hall."

"Well, let's go then. We found nothing down all the other hallways," Dean said, leading the group into the final doorway.

The group went to search the final room, after struggling to turn on the fiddly light switch.

"Are we sure Moriarty left something else for us up here?" Sam wondered, investigating dusty cloths lying throughout the room. He grabbed a nearby tarp and tugged on it, revealing the statues of angels beneath. The stone had a dull grey color, and the angels had their faces covered with their hands. "Because I only see old statues."

The Doctor visibly jumped up into the air at the sense of dread that suddenly rose in his gut, turning to stare at the statues. "Weeping angels!" Clara turned to stare at them, too, her eyes widening.

"They are just statues," Castiel stated, "They are not angels."

"No!" the Doctor exclaimed, flailing his arms around, "No time to explain! Look at them! Look anywhere but into their eyes! Don't look away, don't even blink! If you blink they move. They are creatures from another world."

Everyone turned to stare at the statues to see what had caused the Doctor's outburst.

"That's ridiculous," Sherlock stated, simply.

"I never thought I'd agree with you, but that is a little crazy, Doc, even for us," Dean agreed. "I mean, they're harmless statues; I'm sure I've seen similar ones before."

Before the argument could continue, the lights flickered suddenly, and when they flickered back on, the hands of all the angel statues were reaching out towards them and they had moved about a foot closer, trapping them in the small room. All seven people jumped backwards, yelping in surprise.

"Alright, I believe you," Dean exclaimed. "Alien angel statues... how do we kill them?"

"We don't," the Doctor said, staring at the statues, "They are quantum-locked creatures, and if they capture you they will send you back in time. The only way to stop them is to trick them into staring at each other."

"So, we can't shoot them?" John Watson asked, aiming his gun at one of the statues while staring at it.

"No, it wouldn't really help," the Doctor replied, as the lights flickered again and the angels got closer.

"How many can you stare at at once, Cas?" Dean asked, "Angels don't need to blink, right?"

"Dean, I only have two eyes, and there are five angels here."

The lights flickered for a third time.

"May I suggest a course of action?" the Doctor asked.

"Go ahead," Dean answered.

The Doctor stared at a Weeping Angel, while shrugging. "We could run."

"Good plan," John Watson agreed.

"Yeah, I second that," Clara added.

"I can do running," Dean said, "Sam?"

"Yeah, running's good," the taller Winchester affirmed.

"Right, everyone agreed on running?" Dean asked.

"I do not object," Cas added.

Sherlock groaned loudly. "This isn't a democracy! We are cornered! Just go already!"

"Sherlock agrees!" John exclaimed.

They sprinted across the room, narrowly avoiding the Weeping Angels, as the lights flickered for a fourth time.

When they reached the outside of the abandoned warehouse, they all stopped to catch their breath.

"Well, that was close," Dean noted, "We must have lost them."

But Dean had spoken too soon. In the blink of an eye (literally), a single angel appeared behind Sam, Clara and John, and the three vanished from thin air.

"Sam!" Dean exclaimed, turning to stare at the Weeping Angel. "Sammy! Where did he go!"

"Back in time!" the Doctor exclaimed, "They went back in time!"

Dean suddenly looked determined. "Well, I have to go with him."

"No, Dean, wait! You can't—"

"I'm coming for you, Sammy!" Before the Doctor could stop him, Dean blinked, and he too was taken away by the angel.

"John..."

The Doctor quickly, grabbed Sherlock Holmes' shoulder. "No..." he said firmly, "Don't. We'll get John back. We'll get them all back, I promise."

"You shouldn't make promises you can't keep, Doctor," the detective said, staring darkly at the Weeping Angel.

The Doctor sighed, and he couldn't keep this thoughts from drifting to Amy and Rory... and now to Clara.

"No," the Doctor said firmly, "We will get them back, I know it."


	6. Hello, Sire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is transported back in time by the Weeping Angels.

Dean Winchester felt himself fall face-forward into something surprisingly soft enough to break his fall, but slightly prickly. He quickly wiped a bit of hay off of his face after realizing that he had landed into a wooden wheel barrel filled with hay. His head felt slightly fuzzy, as if adjusting to a new altitude on a plane.

Dean stumbled out of the hay-filled wheel barrel, and looked around at his surroundings. As he did he remembered what the Doctor had told him about the 'Weeping Angels' that had attacked him. _They send you back in time_ , Dean thought, wondering where— _when_ he mentally corrected—he was. He appeared to be in some sort of alleyway, as he saw grey stone walls on either side of him, stretching rather far into the sky, and a sturdy stone floor was beneath him.

Dean sighed. He really wished he had paid more attention in history class, though judging by the wooden wheel barrel he guessed he went pretty far back in time or he landed in a very rural area. This was not Dean's first major concern, though; he could figure out where and when he was later and how to get back to the present, after he found his brother.

"Sam!" he called down the alleyway, "Sammy! Where are you?"

Dean walked briskly around the corner of the alleyway, and collided with a figure, sending bits of corn flying to the ground.

"Crap!" Dean exclaimed, reaching down to pick up all the ears of corn he had knocked out of the woman's grasp. "I'm..."

The woman who was carrying corn stared in shock at Dean. She was pretty, with dark brown curly hair and wore a light blue dress that looked like it was plucked straight out of a medieval knight movie. The pieces in Dean's head went together as he glanced around at the tall stone statues and large open place that stretched all around him. At the end of his vision he could even see stone towers at the top of the large stone walls that looked out across the... castle? Kingdom? The knights of the round table? It felt surreal, and Dean felt like he had jumped into an old movie.

Except Dean was still wearing his black, rumpled 'FBI' suit, which would surely seem weird to the woman, and was probably why she was looking at him so strangely; well, that or the fact that he had ran straight into her. "Uh, sorry about the corn..." he said awkwardly, holding it out to her.

She blinked rapidly. "Oh... thank you," she said, grabbing the corn out of his hands, "It's fine, I didn't see you come around the corner."

"Right," Dean said, "Well, I'm just... I'm new here... I'm visiting from...umm... very far away, and I haven't got the chance to change clothes yet... and I don't really know where anything is so... sorry again... for the corn and the bumping into thing." Dean mentally kicked himself for his awkward speech, and blamed it on the fact that he felt disconnected from the place around him, like he was in a dream.

"Really, it's fine, thank you for picking up my corn."

"No problem." Dean paused, wondering how much he could push his luck. "I'm actually looking for someone, my brother. I... I lost him, and I really don't know where he is."

The woman's face showed real concern. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Where did you last see him?"

"Well, I'm not sure. Sam and I, we got separated when we got lost..." Dean looked around, "It really is a huge place around here."

The woman chuckled pleasantly, "It sure is!" She paused. "I think I can help you find your brother."

"Really? I'd hate to intrude. You look like you have somewhere to be going."

"No, no, I'd be happy to." The woman smiled, "I understand. I too have a brother. They can be a pain sometimes, but we have to look out for them."

Dean chuckled. "I try to."

"Good. I'm already headed to the King's castle, delivering this corn and I have friends there that can help you find your brother... Sam, is it?"

 _King's castle!?,_ Dean pondered, wondering how this had become his life. "Yeah, his name's Sam."

"Great." She began walking and Dean followed behind her, loosening his tie.

"So, where are you from?"

 _Oh no_. "Umm, it's very far away... you probably haven't heard of it. It's called...err... America."

"America?" the woman questioned, "No, I'm afraid I haven't heard of it before. What brings you all the way to Camelot then?"

 _Camelot_ , Dean thought, wondering why that sounded familiar and attempting to recall any history lessons or even any medieval movies. "Me and my brother, we... we came for work. Umm... our farm ran out of good soil. It's a very agricultural place, America. Much less advanced than Camelot, I'd think. What about you, Miss...?"

"Oh..." the woman said, then blinked suddenly. "I've just realized I haven't told you my name! How very rude of me. I'm a servant at the castle, for Lady Morgana. My name is Guinevere, but please call me Gwen." She held her hand out to Dean.

Dean shook her hand. There was no use in making up a fake name. "Dean, Dean Winchester." He said, "Good to meet you, Gwen."

"You, too, Dean. I hope we find your brother."

"Yeah," Dean said, absentmindedly, wondering why even her name sounded so familiar. _Camelot_ and _Guinevere_. He really wished Sammy was there to help him work out why the words sounded so familiar, but he shrugged the thought away. He had to focus on finding Sam. So, Dean Winchester walked with the servant girl, Guinevere, to the King's castle in Camelot.

After seeing a surprised look upon his brother's face, Sam Winchester felt his head bump into something hard and wooden. He grunted, disoriented, and rubbed his head, blinking rapidly when he saw that he was no longer standing outside of the broken building, and Dean was nowhere to be found. In fact, Sam noticed, only Clara Oswald and John Watson remained with him, both looking quizzically around the room. It was a large room, with large white walls, with royally red curtains on the windows and a nicely carved wooden dresser that Sam's head had collided with. It looked like a room straight out of a movie set for a medieval castle. Everything from the shiny floors to the large king-sized bed...

Sam's train of thought stopped suddenly. He was in a medieval bedroom with a large bed that had a _man_ sleeping in it. Sam could hear the soft snoring from his position on the other side of the room.

 _The Weeping Angels_ , Sam thought, _they must have attacked when I wasn't looking and sent us all here._

He looked at John and Clara, who both stared wide-eyed at their surroundings, and was about to warn them to keep quiet, when all three jumped suddenly at a pounding on the room's doors.

"Arthur!" Sam heard a voice call from the other side of the door, "Arthur! Wake up!"

Sam panicked suddenly, searching for a place to hide. He had no idea where they were there, and absolutely no clue when they were, but he was certain that they were not supposed to be there.

"Hide!" he whispered quickly to John and Clara, who nodded in response.

Sam quickly cramped himself into a nicely crafted dresser, cursing his tallness for the second time since he had left America. He awkwardly squashed himself in between what he found were lots of tunics and various other clothes, and closed the dresser doors. From an awkward squashed position, Sam could see John and Clara, through the cracks in the dresser doors, searching for a place to hide, eventually settling to hide in the dark red curtains when they found no other place.

Just as John and Clara took their hiding position, Sam heard the man knocking at the door burst into the doorway.

"Arthur!" the man called out again, his voice sounding annoyed. "Arthur, how are you still asleep? Your father's meeting started an hour ago!"

The man who burst into the room was a rather short and skinny man, who looked more like a boy, now that Sam could see him; he had short black hair and wore a bright red tunic with a large blue scarf. He quickly pulled the covers off of the man sleeping in the bed.

The man, who Sam assumed was Arthur, sat up suddenly, nearly falling off the bed, his blonde hair rumpled from sleep. "What!?" he exclaimed, looking at the man who had yanked the covers off him. "Merlin! What are you doing?"

 _Merlin!?_ Sam thought suddenly, _and Arthur!? No, it couldn't be._

The small man—Merlin—sighed. "I'm waking you up, you clotpole. You've overslept, _again_! Your father's meeting started an hour ago! He's been looking for you."

"Oh," Arthur replied, "Merlin! Why didn't you get me up before then!?"

Merlin sighed again. "I was running an errand for Gaius."

Arthur got out of his bed. "Well, your duties for your prince are more important than any errands! You should do your best to remember that."

"Of course, _my lord_." Merlin said, with a hint of sarcasm. "But right now, you'd better get dressed. Your father is furious."

Sam began to worry as Arthur walked in the direction of the dresser he was hiding in. He tensed, failing to think of any option he had once Arthur had opened the door, but he found none. He only had his demon blade, but he decided quickly that fighting would not be the most morally correct option, especially if he had travelled back in time and would surely mess up some sort of history if he started killing anyone.

And thus, without any option, Sam stood cramped in the dresser as Arthur pulled it open. "Merlin, you don't happen to know what my father's meeting was about, do you? I seem to have forgotten—" He jumped as he spotted Sam.

"What are you doing here!?" he exclaimed, quickly producing a long sword and pointing it at Sam. "Who are you!?"

Sam stepped forward to exit the dresser, getting a more clear view of the shirtless man with rumpled hair who now pointed a sword at Sam with a confused expression on his face. "What are you wearing?" he added, suddenly, as Sam realized he was wearing his FBI suit.

"I—uhh... I seem to have gotten lost..." Sam searched for something to say, flinching as the sword moved closer to his throat.

He saw the room grow significantly brighter as Merlin pulled open the curtains, no doubt revealing John and Clara behind them.

Merlin frowned at the two. "Arthur, more intruders over here."

Arthur glanced over to confirm the fact.

"Guards!" he shouted towards the door, "Apprehend these three intruders."

"Wait," Sam began, desperately, "I didn't mean to... I mean, if you just let us leave—"

"Take them straight to the King's court!" Arthur declared, sheathing his sword, as armed guards wearing chainmail and carrying more swords burst into the room, and immediately began to point the swords at Sam, Clara, and John. "They were hiding in my room! Merlin, get my shirt!"

"But, we don't mean any harm, we just—" John protested, as a guard grabbed him.

"We don't even know where we are!" Clara exclaimed, also being held down.

Sam groaned as a nearby guard, grabbed both of his arms. Another guard patted Sam down, and took his demon blade out of his pocket.

"Hey!" Sam protested, struggling against the guard.

The guard just held Sam firmly in place. "Don't even think about trying anything!" he grunted, practically dragging Sam out of the room as the others followed.

Sam grunted as the guard threw him to the floor in the middle of a large and beautiful decorative room illuminated by sunlight shining through the large windows on the right. Sam would have taken the time to revel in the fact that he was literally standing in architectural history, but decided that now was not the time, as he saw Clara and John pushed onto the floor beside him.

"Arthur!" A man with greying hair and a hard face sat upon the large throne at the front of the room. He wore a shiny crown and chainmail, and he had a long red cloak of the same royal color as the curtains. "What is the meaning of this!?"

Sam saw Arthur walk past him towards the throne, now dressed in attire similar to that of the guards. He joined those sitting around the throne, and addressed the King. "Father," he greeted, "Please forgive me for being late, I have found three intruders hiding in my room."

A nearby knight produced Sam's demon blade. "Sire, the larger one was armed."

The King stood, staring at Sam, Clara, and John. "Is this true? What were you doing hiding in my son's room?"

"We got lost!" Sam called out, "We didn't know where we were... uhh... Your Majesty."

"What do you mean, you were lost!" the King returned, "How did you get inside the castle? Past the security? Into Arthur's room?"

"We, uhh, didn't know it was the castle," John said, "Your Majesty..."

"We mean you no harm!" Clara added, "We are lost, and we just got scared and had to hide..."

"Preposterous lies!" the King exclaimed, "Of course you know where you are! This is Camelot's castle and I am King Uther Pendragon! I ask again, how did you get into my son's room? Do you mean to kill him?"

"No!" all three exclaimed.

 _Camelot_ , Sam reflected, as he felt a headache coming in, _this cannot be real._

"What are you names?"

"Sam!" Sam exclaimed, "And these are John and Clara. Please, sir, we don't mean to hurt anyone—"

"Are you sorcerers!? Is that why you wear such ridiculous clothing?" Uther looked as if he had a revelation, and turned to an old man sitting beside him. "Gaius," he asked, "Could they have gotten in here using magic?"

The old man raised an eyebrow. "Well, yes, sire, but I don't think—"

"They are traitors to their King! Sorcerers who wish to kill Prince Arthur," the King declared. "Guards! Send them to the dungeons to be executed tomorrow morning. I will not stand for any more of these sorcerers attempting to destroy Camelot."

"But, we aren't—we don't—" Sam protested, as the same guard gripped him again.

"Father, we should at least let them explain themselves!" Sam heard Arthur argue. "They haven't tried to harm anyone..."

"Arthur, one of them was hiding in your dresser with a dagger. That is all the evidence that is necessary—"

The King stopped abruptly, when the front doors of the King's court flew abruptly open.

"Dean!?" Sam called out, incredulously, as he saw his brother burst into the room, followed by a pretty woman in a light blue dress.

"Sammy!" Dean called back, running over to Sam, who was being held by a guard. He looked as if he was about to start attacking the guard when he looked around, noticing the many other knights positioned around the room. He stopped abruptly oin front of Sam.

"What are you doing here, Dean?" Sam exclaimed, "Are the others with you?"

"No," Dean said, sadly, "You guys got sent back by the..." he glanced around, and whispered, "Weeping Angel things, and I came in after you. I've been looking all over for you. Sammy!"

"Dean, you should have just stayed where you were—"

"Stop!" the King shouted, suddenly, "Why is this man in my court! Seize him!"

"What?!" Dean exclaimed, "No, this is my brother, I was just looking for him..."

"You are with the sorcerers?"

"What the...?" Dean stammered, "I'm not a sorcerer, what is going on, Sam!" Dean was also grabbed by a nearby guard.

"We're in Camelot, Dean," Sam called out to him. "Like King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table!"

"You can't be serious!" Dean grunted, "We haven't done anything, we are not sorcerers!"

"Take him to the dungeon with the rest!" the King bellowed.

"Father, you can't just execute them without a trail—" Arthur argued.

"Wait!" a voice suddenly called out, and everyone stopped struggling and arguing to turn and stare at the woman who had spoken.

It was the women in the light blue dress.

Sam saw Dean look at her hopefully.

"Wait, sire!" she said again, swallowing nervously. "Please. I found this man lost on the streets. He says that he and his brother come from far away, from America! He is only looking to find his brother, and he says that they got lost along the way in Camelot. Can we please just give them a chance? I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this."

Everyone stared at her.

After a long period of silence, Sam noticed a woman sitting next to the King stand. Her hair was a dark color and she war an elegant dress. "Sire," she said, "This is my servant, Guinevere, and she has always served me very well. If she says that we should consider that these... people... mean no harm, then I think we should indulge her."

The King looked at the woman, and sighed. "Very well," he said, quietly, "If Lady Morgana wishes to consider your innocence, than I shall heed her council. Guards!" he called out to the knights, "Please escort our _guests_ into the guest room, and ensure it is heavily guarded, so our meeting will continue as originally scheduled, and then we will deal with this matter."


	7. Stuck in the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Dean and the others struggle to deal with their new time period, Sherlock, The Doctor, and Castiel try to work out a plan to get them back.

Sherlock Holmes, the Doctor and the angel Castiel stared at the remaining Weeping Angel, as its arms remained outstretched towards them.

"Mirror," Sherlock said, suddenly. "We need a mirror."

"Brilliant!" the Doctor grinned, patting the detective on the back, "You are fantastic!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Really, Doctor, you don't need to state the obvious all the time, it can get tiring."

"What?" Castiel said, "I don't—"

"A mirror would cause the angel to always be looking at itself, causing it to be frozen in time forever staring at its own reflection..." The Doctor stopped mid-explanation as Castiel disappeared suddenly.

Sherlock sighed, still staring unblinking at the Weeping Angel. "Well, he really is very useful—"

Castiel reappeared quickly, holding a large mirror. "You mean, like this mirror?"

The Doctor grinned again. "Exactly!" He excitedly grabbed the mirror from Castiel and pointed it so that the Weeping Angel was staring at its own reflection. "It should be stopped now."

Sherlock blinked carefully, and the angel did not move. The detective let out a breath he was not aware he was holding.

"There are still more of these creatures in the building," Castiel said, "I can take care of them. Wait here." He disappeared again.

"He does that a lot," the Doctor commented.

"It really does become irritating," Sherlock agreed.

The two stared at each other for a long moment.

"He doesn't expect us to actually wait here, does he? While our friends are who-knows-when?" Sherlock declared.

"Probably not," the Doctor answered, sighing deeply, and beginning to pace around the outside of the abandoned building, as Sherlock followed close behind him.

"You said Moriarty would leave a clue," the Doctor said, "But we found nothing. No clue, other than a bunch of demons and angels sent to kill us."

Sherlock frowned. "It has to be part of his game somehow..." He shook his head. "It doesn't matter right now, anyway, we have to focus on getting them back, and then we can stop Moriarty."

"Even if I did have my Tardis—" the Doctor began.

"Tardis?"

"'Time and Relative Dimension in Space.' It can travel through space and time. Even if I did have it—which I don't because Moriarty has it—they could have been sent back to anywhere at any time, I would have no idea where to travel to get them back."

"You promised you would get them back."

"I did, and we will," the Doctor replied firmly, "I'm just not sure how yet."

"So you're making promises to solve things that you don't even know how to solve yet. You have no plan at all. That's... that's highly illogical."

The Doctor shrugged. "It's worked for me most of the time. Logic doesn't usually factor into my life."

As if to prove his point, the Doctor could hear a faint whispering noise. He would have normally dismissed such a noise as the wind or some other natural occurrence, but he knew that it was not when he saw Sherlock's steady gait falter; the detective knew that something was wrong.

The two shared brief eye contact before turning around quickly to face an alarmingly large mob of at least ten figures, who's flashing black eyes bore into the detective and the Doctor.

The Doctor heard Sherlock laugh slightly, as he began to make a plan to most likely run away. "More demonic minions. How uncharacteristically boring of Moriarty. You have to have something better than that—"

But the Doctor's thoughts and Sherlock's speech were interrupted as both were thrown against the hard brick wall of the building, choking in the effort of attempting to breath.

A demon in the front of the crowd smiled widely as he held out a large hunting knife toward Sherlock. "Moriarty is going to be pleased with the pieces of you that I bring back to him," it growled.

The Doctor struggled within his invisible grasp to no avail, as he saw the demon plunge the knife straight into the chest of his new genius detective friend. _No_ , he thought, _no, no, no. This couldn't happen. I won't let it happen. Not again. Not to my friend. Please don't let it happen. There has to be some way._ The Doctor knew he had little options left seeing as the knife was delving deeper into Sherlock's chest in every passing second, and the Doctor could feel his life slowly being choked out, and though he would last longer than the detective, it wouldn't be long enough. He had only one option left, and he was doubtful if it would work, but he was determined to try. He pushed all other thoughts from his mind and focused on sending another thought in the hopes that his prayer would be answered. Castiel, he thought, _I am praying to the angel Castiel. This is the Doctor, and if you can hear me, Sherlock and I are dying. Please come. We need your help..._ The Doctor could feel his vision darkening now from a lack of oxygen, and he faintly wondered if Sherlock would even still be alive if the angel came to them.

But before his vision could fade, the Doctor heard a faint "yes" muttered from the detective dying beside him, and he was suddenly overwhelmed by a blinding white light accompanied by a nearly deafening whistling noise. The Time Lord could have sworn that in his fading vision he saw the outline of two shiningly bright white wings around Sherlock, before he was released from the demonic grasp that was choking him, falling straight onto the wet grassy ground.

The Doctor immediately coughed and inhaled large breaths of air, before stumbling clumsily into an upright position. He first noticed that the demonic horde was nowhere to be seen. Secondly, he noticed that Sherlock was staring at him with a piercing and unfaltering gaze, with no sign of the previously lethal stab wound, aside from a large hole in his clothing. But the Doctor knew that it was not Sherlock that was staring at him, as he felt the familiarly awkward sense of inhumanity surrounding him, in addition to the fact that he could see his eyes still growing faintly blue.

"Castiel," the Doctor breathed out once he regained the ability to speak.

"I have sent them to a place far away where they cannot hurt anyone," Sherlock's deep voice told the Doctor in an unnaturally even tone. "I knew you would not appreciate it if I killed them, and thought that it was the best option. Sherlock's body should be healed by now. Wait here while I return to my vessel."

"Okay," the Doctor said simply, as the blue light and loud whistling—that sounded a lot like screeching—returned again, and the Doctor could see the outline of wings around the detective, as the angel Castiel left his body.

Sherlock stumbled forward after the blinding light subsided, turning to stare questioningly at the Doctor. He put his hand through the hole in his shirt, frowning confusedly when the knife wound was no longer there. "What happened? What—what did you do?"

The Doctor couldn't help but grin at the confused detective. "I prayed for Castiel," he told him. "And then he—he healed you."

"Oh," Sherlock said, dumbly, as said angel appeared beside them, clad in his standard trench-coated form, and the Doctor caught another glimpse of the angel's shockingly beautiful wings.

"Thank you for allowing me to possess you for a short period. You were dying, and there was no other way to heal your fatal wound," Castiel's deep gravelly voice informed them.

"That's umm—" Sherlock looked uncharacteristically at a loss for words. "Err—no problem. Thank you for—umm—the demon thing... and the healing thing."

"You're welcome."

The three stood in an awkward silence for a long moment.

"What did it feel like?" the Doctor broke into the silence curiously.

"Oh, I don't know, really. I don't remember much, aside from a bright glowing light and a knife being stabbed into my chest and then... well, dying..." Sherlock furrowed his brows. "I do remember after that feeling something foreign in my mind, like, almost like I was dreaming, and... I was talking to you." Sherlock grinned, suddenly. "I remember I told you—or, Castiel told you how he knew that you wouldn't want to kill them..."

The Doctor grinned back, clapping his hands together, "That's brilliant. Possessed by an angel! A once in a lifetime experience!"

Sherlock reluctantly grinned back at the Doctor. "It was rather exciting."

The Doctor smiled at Castiel only to find the angel frowning back at him, his head tilted slightly to the left. "Doctor," Castiel said, "I tried to possess you as well, but I was unable to because you are not human."

The Doctor laughed nervously. "Oh, well, yes, I suppose so—"

"Doctor." Sherlock was no longer grinning at the Doctor, and instead his greenish-blue eyes seemed to stare right through the Doctor, past his initial deception, or rather past everyone's silly assumptions that he was human.

"I have never encountered one like you before," Castiel continued, his deeply blue eyes also piercing through the Doctor.

The Doctor smiled awkwardly. "Well, I can explain this." The angel and the detective continued to stare at the Doctor expectantly. "I am not human, I am a Time Lord."

* * *

 

"Thanks for all the friggin' hospitality," Dean commented, as he shrugged his arm out of a guard's firm grasp, and into a large and nicely decorated guest room, along with Sam, John, and Clara.

"The court shall hear you after the meeting is over. For now you may stay in this room, but you cannot leave for any reason without an escort by an armed guard," the guard informed the four, glaring slightly at Dean.

"Thanks," Sam said before Dean could make another sarcastic comment, as the guards left the room, closing the large wooden doors behind them.

Dean discarded his suit jacket, sighing deeply as he plopped himself down on one of the two large and decorative king sized beds in the room. The mattress was unsurprisingly soft and comfortable as Dean sprawled out on it. "At least this is a lot nicer than the cheap motels we usually stay at, Sammy."

Dean saw Sam pull a face at him. "We have to get out of this timeline, Dean, we don't belong here."

"Can someone please explain to me what _exactly_ is going on here!?" John interrupted, sitting on the other king sized bed.

"You guys got sent back in time by the Weeping Angels," Dean explained, "And I ran in after you, but the others are still back in the present... well, we hope so, anyways."

"We're sometime in Camelot," Sam added, "In medieval times. And that guy whose room we were stuck in, that's King Arthur, or soon to be him anyways."

"But, King Arthur is just a story," John said, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

"Nothing is ever just a story," Clara commented, sitting down beside John.

"Well, there has to be a way to travel back somehow," Sam said, hopefully.

"Yeah Sam, let's just go find Marty McFly and ask him to take us back with him. I'm sure we'll find him hanging out in a tavern with the knights," Dean said sarcastically, earning him yet another glare from Sam.

"No," Clara said, sitting up straighter, "The Doctor can get us back. His Tardis—his time machine—if he had it he could come and pick us up."

"What do you mean, 'if he had it'?" Dean questioned, also sitting up on the mattress.

"Well, he kind of lost it and I think—I think Moriarty took it."

John groaned and rubbed his face into his hands. "Of course Moriarty has it."

"But the Doctor could get it back," Clara added hopefully, "If they can find Moriarty."

"Yeah," Sam said, "But even if he did find it, how would he know when we were sent back to? I mean, we could have been sent back to any time, right?"

Clara frowned. "I don't know."

"Well, that's perfect, our fate hangs in the balance of a crazy guy with a bowtie that we just met getting his magical time machine back from a demonic criminal and somehow knowing when to come and pick us up. We'd better get used to life without running water," Dean ranted, leaning back onto the mattress again.

"The Doctor will find us," Clara declared, glaring at Dean, "He will come and save us, I know it, he always will. That's what he does, he saves people."

"I really hope you're right," Dean said, quietly, after a short moment of silence.

At this moment, the doors of the guest room creaked open, and all four people in the room tensed. However, Dean climbed off of the bed and stood up, when two people entered the room, because he recognized one of them.

"Gwen," Dean greeted the woman as she walked in, "I'm sorry if I've gotten you into any trouble."

"No, you haven't done anything," Gwen replied, "I'm just glad you finally found your brother... and some other friends as well?"

"Oh yeah, they are John and Clara. Sam and I brought them along from America," Dean improvised.

Gwen smiled back at them as Clara and John said 'hello' and walked over to where the Winchesters were standing.

"And, this is, of course, my brother Sam." Dean introduced.

Sam raised his eyebrows at the woman. "Gwen as in Guinevere?" He shared brief eye contact with Dean and Dean rolled his eyes in response. "It's very nice to meet you."

"Umm, yes, it is Guinevere. It's very nice to meet you as well, Sam. Your brother has told me a lot about you."

A small man beside Gwen swallowed loudly, as if attempting to make his presence known.

"Oh," Gwen gasped, "I'm sorry, this is Merlin! He's Arthur's servant, and I thought that... he might be able to help you."

Sam furrowed his brows and stared at Dean meaningfully, but Dean just shrugged in response.

"It's a real pleasure to meet you, Merlin!" Sam enthused, shaking the little man's hand, and Dean suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at his younger brother.

"Right," Merlin said, "It's good to meet you all, too. Gwen told me you guys got lost around here? And that you came here from some place called America for farmland?"

Now, Sam glared at Dean, clearly judgmental of Dean's cover story, but Sam sill said, "Yes. We got separated and we were just running around the halls trying to find each other and just happened to stumble into Arthur's room. We just got scared and hid, we really don't mean any trouble."

"Right..." Merlin stared quizzically at the four of them, "And you're defiantly not... you know... sorcerers or anything?"

"No!" all four exclaimed simultaneously.

"Err, we mean, we don't know anything about sorcerers or, umm... sorcery..." Sam continued, "I mean, can you use, you know, sorcery?"

"No, no," Merlin replied a bit too quickly, "That's against the laws in Camelot and I—I work for the King's court. That would just be... absolutely ridiculous!" Merlin laughed awkwardly, and Dean thought that it was almost a nervous laugh.

Gwen also laughed. "Merlin just likes to help people, that's all. He—we want to help you if we can."

"We do?" Merlin questioned, "Because I really should get back to that meeting..."

Gwen glared at Merlin. "Yes, of course we do! These people were wrongly accused and you've helped people like them before! Besides it's not like you can help much at the meeting Merlin."

"But I might need to help Gaius! He might need—err, herbs, or something to help save people..." Merlin argued.

"What do people need saving from?" Clara asked, joining the conversation.

"Oh, nothing, just a few suspicious deaths, it's nothing really—" Merlin ranted, nervously.

"They've been murdered by a ghost," Gwen blurted out.

"Well, that's just a theory..." Merlin continued.

"Wait, ghosts!?" Dean exclaimed, "Hold on, are you sure about that?"

Merlin sighed. "Well, yes it might appear that some sort of ghost could be involved, but that's not really—"

"What if we stopped the ghost," Dean interrupted, suddenly.

"Dean," Sam warned, but Dean shushed his brother.

"What?" Merlin replied, confused.

"I mean, theoretically, if we've had experiences with ghosts before—"

"Dean!"

"Shut it, Sammy! I mean, if we helped you with your ghost problem, could they forgive us for... our getting lost?"

"You've seen ghosts before?" Gwen looked surprised.

"Yes, we've actually had a lot of experience in... our old village in eliminating ghosts," Dean elaborated.

Merlin stared at Dean. "Well, we could always use the help... and it would defiantly show the King whose side you're on," Merlin considered.

"Great, we're happy to help, then!" Dean exclaimed, patting Sam on the back. "Right, Sam?"

"Err yes," Sam replied reluctantly, "We would love to help."

"Us too," John said suddenly, gesturing to himself and Clara. "We really hate ghosts."

"Yeah," Clara said, "We're like the Ghostbusters!"

Gwen and Merlin frowned at Clara. "Ghostbusters?"

* * *

 

"Is this your hat?"

In the flat at 221B Baker Street, the Doctor snatched a deer stalker hat from a nearby table, placing it on top of his head.

Sherlock sighed as he sat in his armchair. "It's a stupid hat. Now, put it down."

The Doctor glanced at a nearby newspaper, only to see a photograph of Sherlock wearing the hat on the front page. "Oh!" He held out the paper excitedly. "You're famous for the hat! That's brilliant! Everyone's got to have their own hat."

"I do not have a hat," Castiel said, curiously.

"Don't worry, I'll get you one!" the Doctor enthused, adjusting the hat on his head. "It's a pretty cool hat! Will it be known as the Sherlock Holmes hat? If I wear it does that mean I am Sherlock Holmes? Because I think I'd make a good detective—"

Sherlock angrily snatched the hat off the Time Lord's head. "It means nothing, it's just a hat. We have more serious problems to discuss."

"Fine!" the Doctor exclaimed, sitting in the chair opposite Sherlock's. "I think you like the hat, though."

"I do not."

"Then why do you care if I wear it?"

Sherlock glared at the Doctor intensely, as he sat back down in his chair. "Well, you're not even human."

"Well, then, you're an alien to me, too," the Doctor returned, and then gestured to Castiel. "And he's an angel! We have established this already."

"Of course, Time Lord," Sherlock replied.

The Doctor stared curiously at Sherlock. "You're taking this whole alien thing surprisingly well. You haven't even tried to kill me."

Sherlock laughed. "Oh please, I'm not a simple minded Winchester. Even if you were to suddenly turn against me, which you won't, as you have pointed out, I do apparently have an angel on my side." Sherlock looked over at the angel. "Right, Carl?"

"My name is Castiel."

"Castiel," Sherlock clarified, "Right."

"And you're not going to ask me if I have any special powers or anything?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the Doctor. "Special powers? You? Are you serious?"

The Doctor sighed. "Well, it was worth a shot. I have lived for much longer than you, though, so you could say I have a longer life span. I've seen a lot more than you have. I do also, of course, have two hearts."

"No you don't," Sherlock replied, "That's silly."

"No, that's true," the Doctor said, seriously.

"I do detect a double heart beat rhythm," Castiel confirmed.

"See! The angel knows it's true." The Doctor absentmindedly sipped at a tea cup beside him, spitting it back out when he realized it was rather _old_ tea.

"How does that work, then, two hearts?" Sherlock questioned.

The Doctor frowned at the detective. "Well, how does one heart work for you!? That's a rather rude question."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Well, we'd better hope you have some way to find your 'Tardis' so we can travel back in time, but I assume you haven't come up with a plan for that yet."

"No, not quite. Unless you count finding Moriarty."

"I can travel back in time." Castiel said, and the Doctor and Sherlock stared at him.

"Really?"

"Yes, I was able to send Sam and Dean back before, to retrieve a weapon."

"So, if we knew what time they were stuck in, you could travel there and bring them back... I mean, bring all of them back?"

"Yes," Castiel confirmed, "It would use up most of my energy, but it would be possible."

The Doctor let out a huge sigh of relief, jumping up from his chair and engulfing the angel in a tight embrace. "That is fantastic! You are fantastic, thank you!"

"Err... you're welcome," Castiel managed, awkwardly patting the Doctor on the back in return.

"Well, It's great you two are happy, but I think you're missing something," Sherlock interrupted, "We still have no way of figuring out when they were sent to."

The Doctor thought for a moment. "That might not be entirely true..."

"You didn't bring this up before!?"

"Well, it is a long shot. You see, last time I was able to... to find someone who was sent back because they left a note. It was in a book," The Doctor explained levelly, pushing down the sadness associated with the memory.

"So, Sam and Dean have to write a book for us?" Cas asked, confused.

"Well, not necessarily," the Doctor explained, "They could notify us using anything. A book, a carving on the wall, a letter... as long as it can withstand the passing of time."

"So, wait," Sherlock clarified, "You're telling me we're depending on their ability to be smart enough to send us a message telling us what time period they got sent to."

"Well... yes."

"We're doomed," Sherlock proclaimed, slouching in his armchair.

"Sherlock!" The voice of Sherlock's land lady was loud enough to be carried into the flat.

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson, I'm having a meeting!" Sherlock called back to her.

But, it appeared that Mrs. Hudson was not listening to Sherlock, as the door to the flat opened to reveal her standing in the doorway. "Oh, Sherlock!" she exclaimed, "I'm very glad that you are making new friends—"

"Mrs. Hudson! We are busy. This is a very serious situation..."

"Oh, yes, of course, dear. I'll just leave your mail on the table..."

"Wait!" the Doctor and Sherlock exclaimed.

"Did you say the mail has come!?" Sherlock flew out of his chair and ran to Mrs. Hudson's side.

"Yes, it just arrived and it and one of these letters looks very old, Sherlock, it is rather odd... I don't know what you've gotten yourselves into now, but it is none of my business, I suppose."

Sherlock quickly grabbed the mail from her, and smiled warmly at her. The Doctor was surprised when the normally emotionally-distant detective kissed the old woman on the cheek sincerely. "You are my hero, Mrs. Hudson!"

 


	8. Ghosts and Sorcery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A deal is made.

"I don't understand why you insist that I bring an iron sword; My steel can cut deeper than that useless lump of metal any day," Arthur said, frowning at the small iron sword that his manservant Merlin carried with him on his horse galloping beside the prince's.

Sam Winchester could hardly believe that he was currently riding a horse to go hunt a ghost in Camelot of all places, and giving the future King Arthur and the great sorcerer Merlin advice on killing the ghost. He was suddenly grateful for the short horseback riding lesson he had taken during his college years, as he could see Dean struggling intensely on the horse beside him. Clara and John seemed to be doing alright riding behind the Winchesters, especially considering they had kept themselves on their horses most of the time. The same could not be said for Dean, Sam was sure to note.

It was thanks to some persuasion from Gwen and Merlin, and eventually Arthur that King Uther had finally agreed to consider pardoning Sam, Dean, John, and Clara if they showed their loyalty by putting a stop to the recent murders, and by extension stopping the ghost, though Uther refused to acknowledge that rumor as true. Though Dean had argued for them to be able to bring weapons, the King would not agree to that, so Arthur and two knights rode armed with them into the other end of the city. It was still enclosed within the large stone walls of Camelot, though it did not carry the same sense of royalty that the castle did; the area was more open and busy, with ordinary people walking all over holding wheel barrels and buckets of various kinds and different sizes of buildings both wood and stone on either side of them. Sam thought it was like walking straight into a history book.

"The iron repels the ghost," Sam called out to Arthur, "That and salt are the only things we can use to defend ourselves against them."

"Salt!?" the prince questioned, furrowing his brows. "That's a bit ridiculous, isn't it?"

"Yeah, well…" Sam began, "Those can only repel them; to kill a ghost we need to find the remains and salt and burn it… or sometimes the spirit can latch on to an object if it held special meaning to the person when they were alive."

"So we need to find out who the ghost was when they were alive first, right?" Clara asked, as their horses turned another corner.

"Right," Sam confirmed, "If it is a ghost we first need to find where the body was buried."

"That sounds safe," commented Merlin.

The group headed across a row of houses stretching along the length of one of the large stone walls enclosing Camelot before stopping in front of a small one, made of crumbling stone.

When they reached it, Arthur dismounted first, followed by Merlin and the others. Sam watched Dean frowning at his horse and offered a hand to help him dismount.

"No, I've got this, I'm fine," Dean mumbled, pushing one of his legs over the horse and awkwardly stumbling off of it, nearly colliding with Sam.

Sam stifled his laughter as Dean commented his strong dislike of the large furry creatures.

"Alright, everyone!" Arthur called out to the group, as Merlin fastened the iron sword onto the prince's belt. "This is where the latest murder has taken place… it is the last of four other bodies found along this section of the city," he gestured to the length of the wall, and his face turned serious "Because we are not going to let this happen again. We must stop whoever… or whatever is responsible for killing our people. If you help me do this and prove your innocence, you will not only help prevent any more innocents from being killed, but I will personally vouch for you in getting my father to pardon you all."

Sam stared in amazement at the man as he made his speech, as he envisioned this man as the fabled King Arthur of Camelot that he had read about and seen movies about. It was surreal, and Sam found himself smiling at him like a gleeful child who had just met Santa Claus and found him to be just as fantastic if not better than what he had expected.

"To ensure we cover all possible angels, and prevent any other murders as soon as possible," Arthur continued, "We will spilt up into groups."

Sam heard Dean groan from beside him, and Sam elbowed him in response.

"It's a good plan, Dean!" Sam argued, quietly.

"You're just saying that because he's the prince of Camelot."

Sam glared at Dean intensely, not choosing to dignify Dean's response with an answer, before choosing to be the stronger person, and going back to paying attention to the Prince's instructions.

"… then I'll lead a group to the left." The man pointed down the length of the side of the city's walls. "That group will try and find the ghost and prevent any attacks while we are here… then, another group will stay here and try and figure out the identity of the attacker… or where his body is… or salt?...whatever you need to find…"

The prince paused, while Merlin poked him slightly and whispered something in his ear.

"Right," Arthur began, again, gesturing to his manservant, "This is Merlin, and he will be leading the second group,  _with_  a few knights… so if you think just because he's leading you, you can escape Camelot…" He trailed off as said manservant stood on his foot. "Umm… I will take your most experienced… err… with ghosts?"

Sam and Dean shared a brief look.

"We should split up, Dean."

Dean frowned.

"I know we shouldn't get separated back and time and everything, but I don't trust any of these people with ghosts." Sam elaborated.

Dean sighed. "Alright, I'll go with Prince Charming over here. You just make sure you find the body."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, be careful."

"When am I not careful?" Dean grinned and walked over to Arthur, caused Sam to roll his eyes.

"I'll go with Merlin," Sam then called out to Arthur, "I can help find the remains…" He glanced at John and Clara standing together beside him. "John and Clara will come with me as well." Sam was unsure how the two would deal with fighting a ghost, and decided that it was safer to take them with him.

John protested slightly at that. "I fought in Afghanistan—"

"Yes!" Sam interrupted loudly as Arthur began to furrow his brows at John, "But I need you and Clara to help me investigate the crime…"

The shorter man frowned at Sam, but still agreed. "Alright, I'll help you."

Sam glanced at Clara expectantly.

"Umm… yeah!" Clara said, "Good, we'll help find the body."

"Okay, everyone!" Arthur called out finally, "You have your orders. Let's stop this… ghost, or whatever it may be." He turned to Merlin. "Don't let them get out of your sight," Sam heard Arthur whisper to Merlin, "And make sure to call for the guards if anything weird—"

"Yeah, yeah! Alright, I can handle it on my own, Arthur, I'm not entirely useless," Merlin protested.

Arthur raised a brow at Merlin. "Are you sure about that? You only think you're a bit useless?"

"No… I don't—" Merlin frowned deeply and glared at the prince. "Well, you're a royal dollophead!"

"That's not even a thing, Merlin, what does that mean?" Arthur returned, walking over to his horse.

"It means… it's you!" Merlin responded back.

"Will you two stop arguing like five year olds, and help me!" Dean shouted loudly, "My horse is—" Sam tried to hold back his laughter as he heard muffled cursing as Dean was thrown off the horse and onto the dirt ground awkwardly, one of his feet still stuck in the saddle for a moment, until he could dislodge it. After getting up, and wiping some of the dirt off the front of his shirt Dean glared grumpily at all the faces staring at him, as if daring them to say anything.

Sam just followed Merlin and the others over to the house, hoping his brother would not kill himself on horseback before a ghost could get a chance to attack him.

"Merlin?" Sam called ahead to the man as they approached, very curious about the abilities of Arthur's manservant.

"Yeah?" the man looked at Sam expectantly.

"Oh, uhh, I was just going to say that we should focus on finding the identity of the possible ghost, so we can search for the body. So, what do you know about the case?"

"Right," Merlin replied, "Well, this is the Dreygon family house. We've got several sightings of a ghost dressed in all armor along the length of this wall. The newest body we've got is Paul Dreygon, who died in the house in what looks like a stab wound to the chest, only he was locked inside his bedroom at the time, and when his sister came up to beg the king to stop the murders, she said that nothing on the door or any entrance to his room was disturbed."

"Okay," Sam said, thinking, "Well, we'll need to ask her some questions along with any others around the area at the time."

"John, Clara," Sam called to the two, "When we get in there, Merlin and I can ask questions to her, while you two check the room. If you find any cold spots, salt trails or even ectoplasm it may be evidence of a ghost… and check for any sulfur for demons just in case."

Dean walked brusquely after Arthur, holding out a torch that he had surprisingly been allowed to wield after much debate, because it was beginning to get dark, and in the stone walls of Camelot in whatever century this was long ago, the only light available were the various torches aligned along the walls. Dean was beginning to appreciate the simple pleasure to electric lighting, and perhaps, he thought distantly, running water.

He was starting to think that their trek along the wall was going to be endless when he nearly collided with the prince in front of him, who had stopped suddenly.

"What?" Dean questioned.

"The sword," Arthur said, and Dean looked in front of them to find an empty mound along the wall. "It's missing."

"What sword?"

"The famous sword of Sir Doran, who died defending the city when the sorcerers attacked."

Dean frowned. "Well, I don't really know that that's our problem right now, we should focus on—" Dean stopped mid-sentence when he saw the ghost. It was dressed from head to toe in a knight's armor, which was battered and dented in the ghostly form. It held a sword. Dean could only make a guess as to what sword it was.

"You really spoke to soon!" Arthur said, unsheathing the iron sword as they had instructed him.

"Yeah, story of my life," Dean said, backing up and holding his torch out for lack of a better weapon.

Dean watched as Arthur quickly deflected a blow by the ghost, its sword contacting his with force and confirming that sword was indeed not part of the ghostly apparition. Before the ghost could stop him, the prince jabbed his sword in the ghost's gut and it immediately disappeared.

"You were right about the iron," Arthur said, facing Dean.

"Yeah, don't get too cocky though, because it's not gone until you burn its bones. It can—"

Unsurprisingly, Dean was cut off again as the knight's ghost reappeared. Arthur lunged forward as he turned around, but it was too late, as his sword contacted the ghost's at an awkward angle the force of the hit contacted Arthur in the stomach. Though he was protected by his chainmail, he fell to the ground, unconscious due to the force of the blow.

Dean cursed as the ghost now faced him. He ducked quickly to avoid one blow, sending the ghost careening towards a wall. Dean took this opportunity to grab the iron sword by Arthur's foot, just in time. He raised his sword to block the ghost's next blow and its sword slammed into Dean's sword forcefully again, and Dean felt it slide out of his sweaty grip, sparks flying from the contact. Dean stepped backwards with the force of the blow, his right foot catching on a fallen broom, and he stumbled backwards onto the hay covered floor. Dean felt panic rising in his chest as the ghost raised the incredibly real sword above its helmet covered face, and he instinctively threw his hands up in the air above his face as the sword began to delve towards him.


End file.
